


blood & salt

by lady__sansa_stark



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Not a super sexy vampire story but there will be super good plot twists and at least one secy scene, Oh there's death and some violence but no major character death, Petyr is a doctor, Sansa is a totally innocent baker, Semi-modern AU (but like 100-200 years ago), Though I won't be publishing it on time because life and words, Vampire AU, Written for aidan gillen week 2020
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-26
Updated: 2020-11-02
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:47:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 25,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27205424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lady__sansa_stark/pseuds/lady__sansa_stark
Summary: Something found its way into this sleepy mountain village tucked away from the world, and it had the power to kill those who thrived in the night.
Relationships: Petyr Baelish/Sansa Stark
Comments: 30
Kudos: 20





	1. upcoming storm

**Author's Note:**

> [Happy Aidan Gillen / Petyr Baelish Week 2020 everyone! The way this year’s gone, we definitely needed this spark of inspiration and creation! A million thanks to @aidangillensource for putting it together!
> 
> My contribution will be a 7-part fic instead of one-shots, where the daily prompts act more as loose guidelines for directing this fic. The story is inspired by an episode of a podcast that I listened to a couple of years ago, and the idea found its way firmly stuck on my ‘to write’ list. And with AG week and Halloween just around the corner, there’s no better time/motivation to finally dust it off and flesh it out. (For the sake of spoilers, I’ll credit it in the end notes). 
> 
> I will note that I’ll only get the first 2-3 chapters up daily, the rest of them will be up by the middle of November. Work and life and my tendency to write a lot (too much?). It’s a fun story, I think, an exploration of vampires taken at an angle that is a bit unique (and not /super/ sexy, but that’ll have to be another fic).
> 
> Anyways! Without any more rambling, here’s my take on the weekly festivities. I really hope you enjoy even a bit of it!! ]

It was one of those cold, blistering nights where the wind threatened to topple you and shot fallen leaves as unprovoked daggers. Creatures and bugs were sparser by the night, few providing chirps and hoots and howls that seemed to come from every direction. Nary a cloud in the sky, allowing each constellation shine bright against pitch black.

Petyr lifted his face to the moonless sky, his eyes closed, and inhaled the damp, rich smell of nighttime. Branches scraped against each other above, like chattering spirits. Despite beind alone, despite the near-darkness, he felt content. It was exactly the sort of night that made him feel  _ alive _ . 

But not actually. Because Petyr – though breathing and feeling and moving like all the other creatures in these woods – was neither alive nor dead.

The path to the castle was long and winding, a trek he’d climbed hundreds of times now. There was a point in the middle where the spindly trees grew tall enough and close enough to block out the stairs above. The village behind him was forgotten – people already tucked in for nights that were nearly as long as the days – and ahead the castle blended into the darkness. Here, in the center between living and not-living, he truly felt out of sorts. A shiver ran down his spine.

It only lasted perhaps a hundred steps. But that feeling of  _ wrongness _ clung onto his coat and his, even as starshine poked through the tangle of branches.

Sound returned, too. There was the rustle of of a rabbit to his left, darting over roots and beneath brush. A handful of feet behind it was a wolf, mouth already watering at the taste of warm flesh and blood.

He could spy the castle now. It sat in the center of the clearing, an unmoving lake surrounding it. The castle was a hundred yards from the closest edge of forest, looming higher than even the trees. Sparse lights lit up the windows, dull enough to be mistaken for unnamed constellations.

“Did you bring the stuff?” A voice called out as he exited the forest. 

It was Margaery. It was always her, waiting to talk to him every time Petyr came out here. Even in the darkness, he could sense her hunger, her unease.

She was promised to a ‘prince’ who was rarely here. And because of that, maybe it was boredom that found her teasing people, Petyr included.

“Just out for a stroll, actually.” Petyr adjusted the bundled package under his arm, noticing that her attention had been on it the entire time. She must have gotten wind of the smell when hewas halfway through the forest. “Why else would I be here?”

Petyr fell in line with her. They passed thorugh the crumbling portcullis onto the single bridge that allowed access to the castle. It was wide enough only for three people, or perhaps two in a time where he might be carrying a sword and shield to plunder the castle of loot and women. Even the water below was quiet. 

Her nostrils flared, tongue smoothing over dry lips. “Who will we be having tonight?”

Most of the bridge was stairs, and Petyr never enjoyed the neverending climb up. “The usual.”

“That’s no fun,” Margaery pouted. “I rather like knowing who I’m eating.”

“Then go find someone to eat, and stop pestering me.”

“Why bother?” Though he wasn’t looking at her, he could hear the grin nonetheless. “It’s so much effort to go out hunting, especially when you only get to eat from them once.”

“They won’t die if you drink them empty, you know.”

“Yeah, but then they’re likely to change or tell people there’s some  _ big horrible monster out in the woods, _ and they go out with torches and pitchfork hunting you down. Where’s the fun in  _ that _ ?” Despite her young, innocent appearance, Margaery’s eyes glistened in the moonlight, a small smile distorting her mouth. Petyr didn’t know the details of her past life, though he had plenty of chances to guess. “Why let perfectly good food go to waste like that? Or just hand it over to someone else to finish?” It wouldn’t surprise Petyr if Margaery was  _ also _ hunting humans on the side. She never fed from them, at least not the ones in the village. Petyr would know she had. 

It was one thing to hunt animals and sell the bodies. It was something else entirely to go after  _ people _ .

(Not like Petyr was a saintly puritist to tell his brethren who to eat or not. He just...preferred knowing that the villagers had one less thing to worry about, as a biting winter loomed ahead.

He also preferred not having people  _ know _ that.)

“You have to admit,” she continued, “that it  _ is _ more fun, isn’t it?.”

Petyr didn’t want to answer her unasked question:  _ doesn’t the thought of hunting them make you excited too?  _ “If it’s only  _ fun _ you’re looking for, you can join the ‘king’ on his hunts. I doubt he’d say  _ no _ to one more ruthless killer. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve a job to finish tonight.” He hurried his steps.

This was, in fact, a job no one had either asked or hired him to do, whether at expense of compensation or his life. Over a decade later, no one seemed to question the  _ why’s _ and  _ how’s _ of this task. They only cared if Petyr never showed up.

“Do you ever imagine it?” She caught up to him, drawing near enough he could feel the coldness of her skin. “Do you ever think what would happen if you didn’t do your job, just one month? Or how quickly the village would dry up?”

Sometimes, Margaery teased dangerously close to the truth. “And like a bird nursed by humans, you wouldn’t survive out in the wild after being hand-fed for so long. So, all the more reason for me get this delivery done with. Good night.”

“That’s not bad. But it’s less like a nursed bird, and more like… Like a pet. Pets won’t bother going out hunting on their own when their owner feeds them fried fish and seared boar every day. A feast, compared to scraps.”

“I thought I was just a deliveryboy. Have I been suddenly promoted to their owner, now?”

“I wouldn’t mind being owned by you,” she said as she wrapped herself around Petyr’s arm. “Ooh, you’re colder than I am! I can warm warm you up with my–"

“Careful!” The bundle slipped, and he hoisted it up and way from her. Petyr wanted to shrug Margaery off, but more than that he didn’t want the movement to send the bundle skipping down each step and splattering. He suffered through her closeness (she was one of the few that dabbled in perfumes, and the scent – roses? – was cloying), knowing they only had a handful of steps left to climb. 

“Yeah, yeah,  _ Doctor Baelish _ ,” she purred. Smooshing herself this close, he didn’t have to question whether she was wearing undergarments beneath her dress. Petyr wobbled and clutched the bundle tighter, carefully climbing another step. He felt her lips against his cheek, her words tickling his ear. “You can inspect me, too, doctor. Every one of my nooks and crannies. With your fingers, your tongue,-.”

Petyr skipped up the last step, dragging Margaery along. Her grip never wavered, and she giggled at his supposed embarassment. He wasn’t. He was just tired of this charade every month, and tired of wondering what exactly her game was.

“Thank you for your offer, but as you can see–" he nudged the bundle, "–I’m terribly busy at the moment.” He slinked out of her hold (“Spoilsport!” she called out) and made his way through the courtyard alone. Her laughter bounced off the walls, like a flurry of ghosts.. He wished that was the last of Margaery he’d have to deal with, except he thought the same thing last time.

The castle was old and looked the part. Ivy steadily raced all around, wondering which strand would reach the roof first. Several windows were either cracked or missing entirely. Leaves and dead rats cluttered up the gutters, and there was one corner that always leaked during heavy rains. Petyr didn’t know when it was built – hundreds of years ago, which was hundreds of years before he was even born. And at some point in the last few decades, it had become resident to an unconventional sort.

And from one of the highest windows, like always, she stood watching the forest.

The doors swung open as Petyr approached (the only visible form of security, aside from the castle’s eerie disposition and interminable set of stairs). From within, the din that had been barely noticeble to human ears shattered the quiet peacefulness of that moonless night.

They were called the nightfolk on two counts. One: because they were considered by many to be living nightmares, to be walking hosts of immoral spirits feeding on unwary humans. And two: because the nighttime was when they truly came alive. 

Though hardly an hour past sundown, debauchery was already in full swing. 

Despite external appearances, the castle’s interior was rich. The walls covered in intricate mirrors and generations of portraits of royal families long dead (that no one here knew their proper names, only nicknames they gave to the most amusing. Nearly every bit of the castle’s furnishings were laid out along the great hall, couches and pillows and chairs and even a few beds. There was a dusty piano in one of the corners, though no one knew how to fix the strings so it always wailed whenever song was called for. Vases filled with long-dead flowers, crumbling to dust at the slightest touch.

Sprawled throughout the hall were the nightfolk. Some lounged on the furnishings, enjoying plates of bloodied meats and goblets of wine. Others lounged on the furnishings, enjoying the company of two or three or four others. The piano was quiet tonight, but a toupe of servants plucked strings and banged out a ditty that nightfolk danced or swayed or fucked to.

It was the second time Petyr found himself in a world that wasn’t quite right. 

Of course, not all of them planned to waste their long lives in excess. Most were, in fact, quite average, indulging in the revelry of a new moon simply because it was here, and it was something to do. There were plenty other nightfolk scattered throughout the castle. Petyr would have been the same, if not for his work back in the village. He couldn’t imagine being content with infinite years of lounging away, sating his stomach with blood and lust.

If he was going to sit around slothing for eternity, he might as well be dead.  _ Properly _ dead.

“There you are!” came a booming voice. The nightfolk continued their revelry without paying the large man striding towards Petyr any consideration. If anything, gazes were instead locked on Petyr the moment he stepped through the walls. Or rather, the hefty bundle he carried. 

“I was worried you weren’t gonna show up,” Robert said, clapping his meaty hand against Petyr’s back. Petyr grimaced for a moment, hiding it with a smile. Robert was the opposite of him, both in looks and personality, though he was an amicable sort. Or, at least he was especially friendly and look-the-other-way towards the man who handed them blood on a silver platter.

Petyr knew a large part why the nightfolk here did nothing – apart from dancing and fucking – was  _ because _ of Robert, who preferred to live the rest of his unending life the same way he did when he was alive.

“I haven’t missed a delivery in decades, I wouldn’t start now.”

“A good thing you showed up now, eh? I was about to send out a hunting party to make sure you didn’t get jumped in the woods.”

Petyr thought of that wolf stalking his prey. Petyr didn’t know too much about animals, but he knew well enough not to mess with the carnivorous hunters that roamed the mountains. Best to keep to himself.

“Who have you brought tonight?” Robert’s fingers left Petyr’s shoulder and pecked at the thick bundle Petyr carried. It was an effort not to swat at him, like a too-eager child desperate for sweets. 

Except this was the self-proclaimed ‘king’ of the nightfolk, whose nameless castle sat unnoticed in the mountain, far from the troubles that plagued society down below. It was easy to forget that there was more to the world than the sleepy village and the castle’s nightfolk. 

Though he didn’t know the ‘king’ in his first life, it was easy to imagine he was still the same man. Llike a boar provoked, Robert would have no problem running through pests with his tusks. And as such, Petyr never missed a delivery, nor spoke out of turn.

Petyr rather enjoyed his life the way it was, and didn’t feel like upending it for the sake of a snide remark.

“I’ve brought the usual, as always,” Petyr repeated. He followed Robert towards the long series of trestle tables in the center of the room. “Haven’t seen the missus in a while. Is she still away?”

The ‘king’ dismissed the idle chat with a flick of his meaty hand. “She leaves me to this castle, leaves her  _ precious treasure _ , and goes off to fuck-knows-where. But I don’t mind. She doesn’t mind (and doesn’t know) about all my beauties. Not to mention I’ve a diligent delivery boy, so not like I need to any reason to go out. So, no, I don’t much care where she goes or why.” Something was weighing on Robert’s conscience, and it was a good thing tonight was the new moon. Petyr’s delivery was the only thing keeping Robert from wrecking havoc over some petty slight. Because otherwise, Petyr would see a sudden uptick in patients or missing persons tomorrow morning.

So, smartly, he decided to drop his other questions.

The tables they approached were already piled high with dripping meats and honeyed fruits and a hefty selection of ewers topped with various alcohols and bloods. The sight made Petyr’s stomach grumble, and he tried to remember the last time he ate. Or even thought about eating. 

Robert – in his usual fashion of not bothering to ask for permission – slung the bundle onto the end of the closest table and began unwrapping it. Some of the bloodbags tumbled out, nearly avalanching to the floor.  _ Just calm your tits for once in your fucking life _ , Petyr grumbled internally. “Careful not to spill them,” he said aloud, gently moving Robert aside. 

“You better be careful,” Robert said, unaware that he was the one at fault. Or maybe unwilling to accept that he could be the crux of a problem for once. He shoved plates and ewers aside (some toppling, ale and wine spilling onto a plate piled high with barely-seared cuts of boar). “One spilled drop and I’ll have your head.”

Petyr knew he meant it, yet he laughed as the ‘king’ expected. 

Robert grabbed and uncorked a bloodbag, inhaling deeply. “Oh,  _ yes _ .” His eyes rolled back, and Petyr tried not to imagine that’s how the ‘king’ looked in the throes of an orgasm. “Bringing the good stuff as always, Littlefinger. And what’s that a hint of? This spiced blood you’ve brought us tonight? Something special going on down in the village?”

Petyr carefully piled the still-warm pouches onto the table. He’d learned that warming them in a cauldron over a flame during the day brought out the taste come nightfall. Petyr  _ did _ have a batch of spiced blood, a motley of flavorful experiments. But he would be a fool to waste it on the likes of these rabble. “Firstautumn was a few weeks ago. I doubt there’d be much variety in these.”

“Maybe I’ve lucked out and got the good one, eh?”

Petyr uncorked the bloodbag in his hand and sniffed it. It smelled like Meg Connoly, thirty-six, who sprained her ankle trying to corral her three children in from a sudden downpour. Her blood smelled just like blood, a little weak, but nothing out of the ordinary. “Maybe it’s that stomach you’ve got. Might’ve been carrying spiced blood last time I filled it.”

“Lucky me, eh?”

“Lucky you.”

Robert took another swig, rolling the blood around in his mouth, working to detect flavors that probably weren’t there. He swallowed, a wave of ecstasy rolling over his face as the blood warmed him up. “Oh, there’s definitely something in this one, Baelish, but whatever it is, it’s bloody-fucking  _ good _ .”

“Great,” Petyr said unenthusiastically. “Once I finish here I’ll go collect the old ones. Oh, and with your permission, I’d like to go–"

But Robert was already waving him away. He didn’t care about Petyr anymore, not now he’s done his job. Robert climbed up the dais where a king and queen of old would listen to the troubles of the commonfolk they ruled over. Now, it was the epitome of debauchery. Lounging at the base of the stone throne, furs and women waited for him. He barked at a serving boy to fetch him a goblet (“and don’t you dare spill it, or I’ll whip you good!”). Despite undying, his body was twice the size it’d been before it craved blood as much as it did wine or sex (that wasn’t to say Robert gave up those vices. They merely got knocked down to his second and third favorites). As evidence, he dribbled some warm crimson over one of the woman’s breasts and lapped them up.

He was despicable in all the common ways a human man was. 

Petyr looked out across the great hall. Others had noticed Petyr’s arrival and were sending servants to fetch them cups of the fresh batch of blood. Many lounged across furs and pillows strewn about the room (some preferred the cold, solid floor). A group of men (some with a servant straddled across his lap) were bragging about their hunt earlier that week. It boosted their morale, and staved off the urge to go after the villagers.

But that wasn’t to say that  _ everyone _ who needed blood was as baseless as the ‘king’. There were others who stood idly against the walls, eyeing the mountain of blood. They were – as Margaery had put it – unable or afraid to go hunting for food on their own, whether it be animal or human. They found their way to the castle, often by luck. Although, many who’ve been here for years still found themselves tensing up at any sudden noise.

By and large, Petyr’s regular delivery of blood wasn’t for Robert. It was for the average nightfolk. Many had turned during or shortly after the war, and their cravings shunned them out of normal human society. They had nowhere else to go, and by wandering and fleeing, up the mountain they went in hopes that the humans couldn’t find them. 

However, it wouldn’t look good for Petyr to tell the ‘king’ that “actually, these bloodbags aren’t for you, but for the nameless nightfolk who found refuge in this decaying castle. So sorry to disappoint.” Robert would have a field day imagining all the ways to instruct Petyr for his disobedience. So, the two things Petyr knew best were his profession, and when and how to shut up and agree with the people in charge.

The cowering men, women, and children waited their turn for the blood, choosing instead to nibble on some of the foods on the other side of the tables: nibbling on a bloody slice of boar, suckling the last of the fresh fruits from the harvest. Nightfolk, as far as Petyr could discern, needed blood to satisfy their inhuman craving, but needed a bit of food like any other creature. He wasn’t sure if a diet consisting of only blood would sustain one of them, and wasn’t willing to test them himself.

Margaery entered then (where she’d been and doing what, he didn’t bother to imagine). Petyr took that as his cue to leave the nightfolk to their feasting.

He descended down to the kitchen level, careful not to bump into the servants. They were thralls to the more assertive nightfolk, finding comfort in the imbalance of master and slave. Some servants were plain nightfolk who found meaning in doing chores and running errands. There were a few Petyr didn’t recognize from his last delivery.

The kitchens were dark, lit only by torches set in the walls and the various ovens and fire pits. Petyr approached Ilyn. “Bag pickup.”

Ilyn gestured to the large basket in the corner. He was a strange fellow, looking more like a killer than someone who worked in the kitchens. Petyr never asked his backstory (though he wouldn’t get a response even if he did). Perhaps, like the nightfolk-turned-servants, it gave him something to do instead of wallowing in sin. Ilyn was affixing a boar to one of many rusted hooks in the far wall. A bucket was placed beneath its head. With a single masterful swipe, Ilyn slit its throat, scooting the bucket to catch every last drop of blood.

It was like the difference in white wine and red. Blood was, ultimately, blood. Some nightfolk preferred the texture and taste of animal blood, others preferred the crisp tang of human. Many didn’t care so long as they were thoroughly trashed on the high it brought: veins suddenly pumped full of blood, senses heightened to the point they could hear the fluttering of a leaf outside, a heart used to leisure abruptly forced into overtime. The world looked brighter, sharper. That first mouthful of blood on your tongue after weeks going without made you feel invincible.

The clear advantage of human blood, however, was that humans were prone to drinking, a feat nightfolk sorely missed. But if a human got sloshed, and a nightfolk drank their blood, then the nightfolk, too, could remember the lightness of alcohol flowing through their veins. It was for that reason Petyr was careful inspecting the blood he brought every month.

Petyr counted the old bloodbags as he nestled them neatly in the thick wool wrap. One still sloshed with a swig of blood, and (though cold) slid down his throat like fine Arbor gold. 

His body came awake, anticipating more, craving mouthful after mouthful of that sweet nectar. He eyed the boar Ilyn was letting, then eyed Ilyn, the sharp knife he held.

Petyr instead settled for stealing a strip or two of boar upstairs. 

“Till next time.”

Ilyn paid him no heed, moving to a table where a huge hunk of meat sat, prepared for slicing and a very brief stint over the flames. It got that delectable cooked tasted while still remaining red and bloody. Skinned, Petyr could only guess it was boar (they were wile and rampant in the mountains, second only to goats). The good thing for humans was that their nighttime counterparts already had palettes built around eating animal meat and not human meat. There were nightfolk who preferred to eat their human prey after draining them dry, but up here in this quiet corner of the world, they were few. Ilyn’s scarred face and huge size belied the sort of dexterity he had with a knife as he sliced it in even strips. And it was more the reason Petyr always said his  _ hello’s _ and  _ goodbye’s _ to the mute man. Ilyn wasn’t someone he wanted to get on the bad side of.

Petyr was halfway up the stairs when he yawned, pausing for a moment on the landing. The stones were cool against the nape of his neck, and he let the meagre candlelight play puppetshow against closed eyelids. That small taste of blood made him realize it  _ had _ been days now since he last had a proper meal (of blood), or even a proper rest (in a bed, not a coffin). 

It wasn’t that he was incredibly busy. In fact, the busiest months were to come. The mountain’s snows were long-lasting and thick, reaching as high as second-story windows. 

The cold didn’t bother him much. Logically, with his lower blood and lower natural temperature, he should be hibernating along with all the animals. The nighttime should be his most hated part of the day. But something about the darkness resonated deep within his transformed soul.

It was one of those unnatural  _ quirks _ that came along with being neither-alive-nor-dead.

The shadows danced and dance, twirling and twisting into shapes. ONe of them was a face. He remembered it, pale in the window. “I should go check on her.”

Up he continued. The stairs leading to the kitchens and servants quarters were separate from the stairs that led to the rest of the rooms upstairs. Petyr mused once again on the advantage of splitting the stairs. To keep invaders from sneaking into the kitchens and climbing up to the king and queen? To prevent uncouth trysts between those above and those below? Or less dramatic and more likely: to remind the servants that they didn’t deserve to be connected to their masters.

There was, of course, the possibility of ‘that’s just how they built it’, but that wasn’t any fun.

“It wasn’t me!” a shrill voice shouted, breaking Petyr’s thoughts. He had apparently walked the length of the hall, not three steps from the upper staircase. “He just… he… it wasn’t me, I swear!”

Petyr looked over the thronging crowd at the servant, whose breasts and stomach were covered in splotches of red. Her hair was unkempt (in the ‘I just had sex’ way, not in the ‘I just woke up’ way). It struck Petyr then that she was the woman Robert had been playing with.

Robert, meanwhile, was sprawled beneath her on the dais, the bloodbag empty beside his hand. 

It wasn’t unusual for the ‘king’ to party himself into a heavy stupor. But the night was still too young for that. Petyr preferred to be a long way away from Robert’s blooddrunk state. 

And right now (like always), Petyr would have preferred to ignore the ‘king’, but he could sense Robert wasn’t moving or breathing at all. Petyr shouldered his way towards the dais with repeated  _ Excuse me _ ’s. 

“He– he just…” the servant began again, stumbled backwards in shock. She tripped on the empty bloodbag, falling on her butt. “He’s… I didn’t–!”

“Everything is fine,” Petyr assured her, his voice the calm stoicness when he was working with a patient. Her chest was painted red, as was her lips. Lines of blood dribbled from the corners of her mouth. Her eyes were wide, her hands shaking.

He sensed her frantic heart, the sweat beading up on her skin. It was mixed with lust and fear. Fear that she’d been caught? No; if she  _ had _ been the one to do something, surely she would have snuck out before the body was discovered. The fear was genuine. Her heart kept beating, faster and faster, as though it was going to pop from her chest like an illusionist’s bird. “I’m sure he just had a little too much fun, like always.”

Petyr reached for Robert’s wrist.

A  _ thud _ . The servant collapsed, too, head striking the floor with a heavy crack. Just like Robert, she was unmoving. Off in the distance, the musicians kept playing, unaware of the scene. 

Her heart had stopped. Her stomach didn’t rise and fall, her eyes remained open, looking up at the bug-eaten beams and the moonless sky beyond.

All the while, Robert’s pulse didn’t beat once.

No, it wasn’t unusual for Robert to wind up prone amidst naked women and emptied bloodbags.

But it was unusual for someone to kill something that was already not alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ As of posting this, I’ve only got about 25% of the whole thing written. So uh, as I said before don’t expect all the chapters up one-a-day. My b.  
> Also, I want to mention that the structure (and maybe some themes) of this fic will follow my “All Silent Save the Dripping Rain” fic. I’m really excited to write the rest of this story, and I think that the plot twists I’ve started building up here will be fantastic once they’re revealed. ]


	2. caught my eye

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ If you’re here reading chapter 2, thanks a bunch! I know I get just a “little” into the worldbuilding sometimes, which makes my chapters/stories a “little” wordy. Regardless, I still am excited to reveal the rest of this story, and the 7-chapter limit /does/ mean a lot of stuff needs to happen in a short amount of chapters.
> 
> Sansa makes her appearance this chapter, though things don’t go quite as they seem... ]

“You’re a doctor, aren’t ya? Figure out what the  _ fuck _ is wrong with me!” Robert’s voice was weak, but even his current state couldn’t cut out the harshness in his threats. “And if I find out you  _ were _ tryna kill me, I’ll have your fucking head mounted on the gates!”

Petyr had heard that threat a few hundreds times now, but this was the first time he couldn’t just smile or say the right platitude to wave it away. Even among the undying, they had  _ some _ semblance of morals. And killing one of their own for no reason was a quick way to get your throat ripped out. “As far as I’m aware, it was ordinary blood that I brought in. I check each of them thoroughly for any alcohol or drugs before bringing them, and–" 

“Well looks like you missed one, huh?”

Petyr bit the inside of his cheek. “I suppose so. Or there might have been something new I didn’t know to check for.” He rifled through the last month’s patients. No one stumbled in pissed as all hells (and besides, Petyr separated the sampled blood of those obviously under the influence of something). His memory wasn’t infallible, but no one had been acting out of the ordinary that might prove the existence of a new drug. It was all the same mundane ails. 

There  _ had been _ something unusual, though. “You said it was spiced blood?”

Robert (though in agony) gave Petyr a look of  _ are you fucking daft? _

Petyr continued. “What sort of spices do you remember? Did it taste like it was spiked with beer or wine? Or maybe there was something else?”

The ‘king’ shrugged. “Fuck if I remember. There was a bit of  _ something _ in it that made it taste good. Had to stop myself from chugging it at all once.”

“If you had, you would have wound up far sicker,” Petyr mumbled.

“Would’ve been better if you  _ had _ brought me some drunk blood,” Robert grumbled, not catching Petyr’s retort. “At least I would’ve had fun last night, instead of nearly dying. By your hand, remember that, Baelish. If I die, I’ll make sure she has your head.”

If Robert  _ did _ die (a tossup between Petyr being relieved or afraid), Petyr wasn’t sure whether he would stay in the village or not. It wasn’t that he feared the queen’s wrath (anyone in their right mind did). But rumors were likely already spreading through the castle. And if Petyr had the ‘king’s’ blood on his hands, and Petyr was thought to be picking the nightfolk off with poisoned blood, the nightfolk wouldn’t trust him or his deliveries. And if  _ that _ happened, the villagers would be hunted one by one.

One of the ‘king’s’ thralls (Taliya? Janiyah? Something like that) knocked before entering with a cup of blood. It was still warm, fresh from the boar Ilyn slit. Robert eyed it, his senses dulled to the point all he could tell was it was red. “Is it clean?”

To be wary of the very thing you needed to survive. Petyr didn’t feel  _ sorry _ for Robert (he was a bit of an asshole, after all), but humans could at least avoid foods that gave them stomach troubles or muscle spasms. Nightfolk couldn’t just give up blood on a whim.

Petyr motioned to the servant to give him the cup. He sniffed it (nothing strange, likely from an animal). Swirled the glass (in case any would-be poison had settled to the bottom) before taking a small sip and swirling it around his tongue. It was indeed the boar Ilyn was working on earlier that night. A young thing; it had lived before facing any hardships of old age. Perhaps it was a blessing it was hunted now before having to survive the brutal winter.

“It’s clean.” Petyr slowly tilted the glass, letting the crimson dribble into the ‘king’s’ mouth. Robert dutifully filled up his now-empty stomach. Petyr had called for Robert’s men (the  _ kingsguard _ , what a name) to help carry the large man up to his bedroom. Petyr forced him to vomit, hoping to stop any further absorption of the poison into his system.Petyr may not like the man or agree with his baseless debauchery, but he couldn’t let a dying man die. 

This close, Petyr tried to detect the taste of last night’s poisoned blood from his lips, but the retch overpowered even the blood. Petyr held his breath. 

Robert wasn’t the only one who had collapsed. One of his lady servants (maybe  _ that _ was Janiyah) did too. The ‘king’ filled her mouth with the tainted blood and planned to scoop it out from her with his tongue. She’d also been swayed by its mysterious tantalizing taste, and swallowed it instead. A smaller dose, but enough to leave her prone in the rooms below.

It was the last chug – draining the bloodbag of all its contents – that finally did Robert in. It was a good thing the ‘king’s’ larger body weight made the poison work slower than that lithe servant. Except, Petyr wished he’d had more than an emptied bloodbag to investigate.

Robert pushed away the drained goblet with a meek shove. “If you’d brought in drunk blood, though, I’d be having a bloody fantastic night instead!”

If Robert was  _ annoying _ when he was sober, and  _ a pain in the ass _ when he was at death’s second door of some unknown poison, then there wasn’t a word or phrase that succinctly described him being drunk. Raucous and vulgar, threatening anyone who dared cross him (and unafraid to do the bloody work himself; he’s beaten friend and strangers up for the most trivial things).

“Well, I apologize that all I had this month was poisoned blood, instead.” Petyr bit the inside of his cheek again (there was a lump forming), trying not to accelerate his head finding a new home. He picked up one of Robert’s hands, feeling for a pulse. “How are you feeling now.”

“Annoyed.”

“And?”

“Bothered.”

Petyr let go. THe ‘king’s’ pulse was weaker than a normal nightfolk’s, but steady. “Make sure to ingest a cup of clean blood every hour for another two days. It should help flush out whatever toxins you consumed.”

“That  _ you _ brought in.”

“And try not to move too much. Your body will absorb the poison faster if you’re active.”

Robert was thoroughly annoyed at the idea of not fucking for two solid days (perhaps, like blood, that was also his lifeforce. Petyr banished thinking on it further). “You there, girl, go fetch me something fresh.”

Taliya(?) opened her mouth, as if to protest that he’d just downed a glass, before realizing it’d be best if she said nothing at all. Petyr felt sorry for anyone who was bitten by the ‘king’, and thanked the gods he didn’t believe in that Robert wasn’t his creator. Her steps were quiet on the way down the stairs.

Robert motioned for Petyr to bend an ear. This close, Petyr could smell the horrid amalgamation of sweat and lust and vomit. “You swear it wasn’t you?”

“I swear. If it  _ had _ been me, you wouldn’t still be alive.”

Robert guffawed (it was weak). “I suppose a medicine man like you would’ve gone full speed ahead and dumped the whole jar of poison in.”

The ‘king’ wasn’t far off from the few morbid fantasies Petyr entertained. “Or slip something inside one of your thralls’ cunts. Death by fucking.”

Robert’s eyes lit up for the first time since his collapse. “Now,  _ that’s _ an idea.” Petyr refrained from puking. 

“One more thing,” Petyr added, “it’s been some time since I last checked on her. With your permission–"

“She’s fine,” the ‘king’ insisted with a wave of his hand. “I’ve got my men guarding her. I’ve got someone to fetch her a cup of blood every morning, and it always comes back untouched. I’ll call for you if something happens.”

Petyr wished he didn’t ask for permission, because going behind Robert’s back now would be treason (according to the ‘king’, any little reason to enact punishment was reason enough).

“One more thing,” Robert added, quieter. “You better find out what was in that blood. Whoever or whatever it is – I don’t care  _ how _ you do it – but fucking taking care of it. Got it?”

_ That’s not my job _ , Petyr wanted to argue. But to refuse a dying man’s wish was to invite his ghost to haunt you for the rest of your life. And ‘rest of your life’ to a creature that couldn’t die was an awfully long fucking time. Instead of running away when (if) Robert died, Petyr would slit his own throat.

Reluctantly, he gave a small nod. “I’ll take care of it.”

* * *

Robert wasn’t going to die immediately – Petyr hoped. After all, Petyr rather liked his head and its current position on his shoulders. The fact that Robert wasn’t dead right now was hopeful for his recovery, assuming he followed doctor’s orders. 

“He kept saying it was spiced,” Petyr mused, taking the long way through the forest back to the village. Dawn was just beginning to turn the world a pale grey. It didn’t feel that long ago when he was taking the route up towards the castle; nor did it feel more than a blink of an eye as he saw Robert collapsed on the floor. Time was, to creatures cursed to live forever, impossible to grasp, like water. 

Petyr went through the list of patients from the last month again. In general, he sampled blood of everyone who came in, from minor scrapes to life-or-death operations. The villagers were uncertain at first – Petyr was an outsider, and entertained ideas that the previous doctor didn’t. But his knowledge of medicine and his recently-expanded sense proved his expertise, and now having him sample their blood a few times a year was as ordinary as the turning of seasons. Like every month, his patients were mostly young children and older folks. With cold and rain creeping on the mountain, their bodies were the first to fall ill. Firstautumn was last month, and there hasn’t been a huge upswing in hangovers or blackouts since.

He was able to spot a few twinkling candles in the windows when he remembered something.

There’d been a man. He fumbled into the hospital last evening, just as Petyr went upstairs to gather the blood for his delivery. Petyr didn't get a look at him, sensing that the man had no major injuries, and was neither drunk or high off his ass. He left it to the nurses, and so he’d have to ask them. Did he have a name, or barring that, anything noticeable about him?

Petyr stumbled on a gnarled root, catching himself before catching a face full of dirt. It was obvious Petyr needed sleep, blood, and a cure to his possible soon-to-be-beheading – in that order. 

He did none of those, however, heading straight to the hospital before sunlight had the chance to creep between buildings.

“Where’s the patient from last evening?”

Ros turned to look at him. She was the only other nightfolk working the hospital, ‘volunteering’ for the night shift the same as Petyr. Her hair was the shade of red-brown that streaked leaves just before they fell, Despite being mostly dead, Ros’ skin was always a warm pink. If it hadn’t been for the constant scent of blood on her (something he was sure regular humans couldn’t detect), Petyr wouldn’t have known she was like him. She preferred animal blood, and had no qualms helping Petyr collect from their patients.

(“It helps me clear my head, when I’m out hunting,” she casually threw out one night. “And I… I like to imagine it’s this  _ someone  _ who made my life hell before.”

“Wouldn’t it be easier to work out your anger with people?” It wasn’t that Petyr  _ wanted _ her to start eating the few villagers in town. That went against his morals of keeping them alive (but not against the moral of siphoning their blood for ‘medical testing’ to ship off to the nightfolk up the mountain).

Ros stared at a middle distance a long while, to the point Petyr thought the conversation was over. “Maybe. But there’s no point forcing other people,  _ innocent _ people, to live like we do. It’s no blessing.”

Petyr remembered fire and smoke and dying. There was blood, so much of it; the world was shades of crimson. “No, it’s not.”

“Besides,” she continued, turning back to her work. “Some other bastard was lucky enough to kill him. So it’s only fitting I kill the fattest pigs as replacement.”)

Ros looked at him still standing in the doorway, and stiffened. Any snippy retort to Petyr’s tardiness (he chose to get in and out of the castle as quick as possible) was drowned by however hollow Petyr must have looked. “Which patient?” 

It was only last night (not but a few hours), but it felt ages ago. “The one who stumbled in at the end of shift. He might have been drunk?” Just as the sun set either brought in no one or everyone. Last night, it had been a lull, so Petyr took the opportunity to take the night’s delivery of blood off the fire. He warmed it just enough to simulate the taste of freshly-bitten, and just enough that it didn’t make the hospital reek. As he worked, Petyr had to contain himself from ripping open one of the bags and drinking it in one gulp.  _ I’ll have a spiced one when I get back in an hour.  _ That pleasant thought got him through knowing he’d have to deal with Robert and the ‘king’s’ antics. 

“Oh, that fellow. Give me a moment.” Ros left for the other room, checking in with the human nurses who (despite not being nightfolk) showed up to the hospital every day promptly at sunrise. 

Petyr took the opportunity to steal Ros’ chair. He hadn’t sat down all night, and it was less his feet that were killing him than the looming dread of what happened. He kept telling himself it was a one-off thing, either some newfangled alcohol or malady of the blood that turned Robert and the servant violently sick. 

But  _ what if. _

That’s what Petyr couldn’t shake.  _ What if  _ it was something – or someone – intending to rid off nightfolk using their food? And worse:  _ what if  _ Robert died, along with his mannerisms and behavior and ability to keep nightfolk in line with threats? He was, by no means, well-liked. But the man was entrusted with the safety and well-being of any nightfolk who found their way to his castle, and it was perhaps the simplicity of the job that made the ‘king’ favorable to it. That, and the mountains were lush with all manner of animals for hunting. It kept Robert’s trigger fingers happy – there was no doubt he was a ruthless man – should the mood to kill ever overpower his lust for drink and women.

It was for that reason Petyr couldn’t see the man as anything other than a large manchild playing at being a king.

Ros returned with the month’s patient log. One of the changes Petyr made was written records of all the cases, big or small. It was a holdover from his time in the war. He kept a secret, smaller notebook for the nightfolk in the castle, sneaking in to check on them with Robert was predisposed. Ros flipped to yesterday’s entry. A child scraped her knees climbing a tree to save her family’s cat. Others came in with minor cuts or burns. Check-ins with some of the older villagers, now that winter was closing in. Margaret had confirmed she was in fact pregnant, and worried if she should kill it and try again once spring came (the winters were harsh, and it was no easy thing to carry a child). And at the bottom of the day’s logs: “Here he is. Came in complaining of a headache, though might have been a hangover. Clothes were dirty, likely been hunting in the forest, or hiding out there to drink. His breath stank, I remember, like something crawled in his mouth and died while he slept. I took his blood, Joane got him to take some medicine. She suggested he sleep the night here but he insisted he needed to get home to his girl, so we packed him a sachet of ginger tea, he stumbled back out.”

Finished, Ros looked at Petyr as if to say,  _ Well, did that help? _

None of that rang a bell. Petyr peered at the journal. Only a few bits of chicken-scratch were written down. Joane must have filled out this registry – she wasn’t fond of the clerical work on account of having both limited knowledge of letters and poor writing skill. She recognized the shape of the words instead of the words themselves. Joane, at least, wasn’t too proud to admit her faults, checking with the other nurses the tinctures and medicines before applying them. It was usually Ros who spent part of the night filling out her entries in detail. 

Petyr leaned back in the chair. “And who was that man?” 

“It was, um…” Ros tapped her pen against the book. “Oh, this is going to bug me. It was, uh…”

So all Petyr knew about the source of the bad blood was it was any of the village’s men. “Take your time. Do you remember anything else? Like, when did this man come in? I  _ remember _ he was here, but none of what you said.”

“Oh,  _ that  _ I remember, because he showed up just after you went to pack up for the night. Didn’t stay long, a half hour at most. You’d already left on your delivery.”

How convenient. If Petyr was a fraction less sane, he would have assumed that man came here specifically to donate his tainted blood and stir up trouble. But none of the villagers knew about the people camped out in the castle (nor did they know some of the people they entrusted their health to were of the same  _ corrupted sort). _ “DId you dine yesterday?”

Ros tilted her head like she wasn’t sure how that mattered (it didn’t, really), and nodded. She left just before sunrise for the days she hunted, before even the earliest humans awoke. Ros preferred human food over more blood fare, so she drank her fill and left the drained carcass in a bundle by the hospital’s door. It was taken as a ‘generous, mysterious donation’ for all the hard work they did to keep the villagers alive and well. The human nurses vied for choice cuts to take home. And it was always strange how it would be a deer on the doorsteps when just the day before, one of the nurses would loudly declare, “Oh I wish my husband had shot that deer when he saw it last week, now we’ll need to ration our food for a while.” 

“Should we have kept an eye on him?” Ros asked. She was younger than Petyr (both in her appearance and in how long she was spared from death). Petyr didn’t know anything about her transformation other than the bastard she spoke of. What was important was Ros did her work expertly, and was not shy about the more gruesome procedures they sometimes had to do. If anything, her natural nightfolk tendencies made her prefect for this line of work.

“I don’t think he’s in immediate danger, no. But,” he paused, sensing for the human nurses. The village was small enough that any morsel of gossip was worth as much as a freshly-slaughtered animal. “It seems there was an uproar with the delivery last night. I don’t mean to blame you – the fault lies entirely on me – but what did you do with that man’s blood?”

Ros’s eyes widened. “I didn’t–!”

“No,” Petyr interrupted. “I only meant, once you took the sample,  _ where _ did you leave it?”

“Where I’ve always left it. But…” Ros looked sideways, also checking for humans. “What do you mean, ‘there was an uproar’?”

“Well,” Petyr began, relaying the night as vaguely as possible in case of prying ears. He promised to tell her the full unadulterated story that night, when it was just the two of them. “And I wonder, if in my haste, I mistook that man’s blood as one meant for the delivery.”

Ros gnawed at the bit of flesh beside her thumbnail. A nervous habit of hers. “Gods.” It was all she said for a while. Petyr didn’t blame her; he had the same reaction earlier that night. It was difficult to come to terms with the possibility that you could die  _ again _ simply by consuming what you needed to survive.

Nightfolk were not wholly  _ immortal. _ Nothing in this world was immune to aging or death. Whatever curse or magic was what kept them alive, it did so by slowing down their biology. Petyr noticed a few strands of hair that were slowly turning grey, at a scale unnoticeable to the average still-living human. And Petyr – like a regular human – would still die in the same manner. Like if someone stabbed him in his vital organs, or if he slipped and fell down the mountain. Or if an angered ‘king’ made good on his threat and cut his head off.

It was merely a theory Petyr had. Not like there were annual conferences on nightfolk. He had to work things out on his own.

“Gods,” Ros repeated, working her teeth on the other side of her thumb. “And Robert drank it all so we don’t even have a sample to test with.”

“No.” Petyr pulled out the dried bloodbag. Whatever drops they  _ could _ salvage would hardly be enough to figure out what the cause of the poison was. “It was  _ addicting _ , he said. And smelled spiced.”

Ros scrunched her face, racking her brain. “Gods, I honestly don’t remember what that man looked like. He was so  _ plain _ . He’s what they put in encyclopedias for the definition of ‘average’.” 

“But he was a  _ villager _ here?” Petyr stressed, to make sure it wasn’t some recent addition to Robert’s meagre kingdom.

“Oh yes, definitely. I’m certain I’ve seen him around before. Besides being drunk, he was hale and alive.”

“And how old was he?”

“I’d say, no older than I look.”

Great. So ‘average’ really was all Petyr had to work with, but it wasn’t the worst thing. He could figure this out, as if his life depended on it (because it did). 

Petyr stood. “Alright, I’ll be heading home. If you or Joane or any of the others remember anything, let me know as soon as possible. Even if I’m sleeping, wake me up.”

Ros idly thumbed the pages of the register. The weight of the night weighed on her, and for the first time since she stumbled up into this quiet mountain town did she look haggard. “Will it be okay?”

Petyr buttoned up his coat, turning the collar up to cover his neck and jaw. He didn’t want to lie to her (or to himself) that  _ everything was going to be peachy-keen, _ but he couldn’t say with absolutely certainty that whatever ailed Robert was a one-off thing. 

So he repeated himself, though meaning it a little more this time. “I’ll take care of it.”

* * *

The sounds and smells of morning brought him back to a time before he was cursed to favor darkness. Most windows were kept shuttered now that the days were growing colder, but from those brave enough to welcome the brisk morning air wafted fresh-made tea and coffee, fried eggs, the occasional tantalizing sizzle of thick-cut bacon. 

He passed by the baker, too, and the aroma of baking bread assaulted his stomach. If dead and death weren’t looming over his head, perhaps he’d stop off and grab a sweetroll. He spied the shadow of someone working through the bakery’s open door. They were arranging soon-to-be-filled baskets on the counter, brushing off wayward crumbs from yesterday’s bake. It was a girl, her face shadowed. She glanced at him (his feet had stopped, caught by the alluring scent. He felt a  _ desire _ to go into that store just them; a testament to the power of homemade bread), and called out, “The first batch’ll be done in a few, if you don’t mind waiting!”

He wanted to take her up on her offer, but the sun was already started to peek through the early morning god. “Perhaps next time,” he reluctantly replied, forcing his stubborn feet forward.

Oh, but coffee. How he missed the first sip, that pleasant, warming buzz that flowed through his body. He still drank it (mostly for appearances’ sake), but the effects were dull. He’d need a whole barrel of it just to feel that familiar tingle.  _ Coffee blood _ , however, was very much a thing – having similar effect as drunk blood – though it had to be taken just after consumption, and hardly any of his patients came in at the opportune moment. 

It was the little things he missed the most.

Petyr said “hello” to the townsfolk he passed, inquiring about their stiff shoulders or their sickly relatives. It wasn’t often Petyr was seen out and about during daylight hours (a common gossip about him was he lived in his office in the hospital, pillow and blanket tucked away beneath his desk. It wasn’t far from the truth; many nights he slept awkwardly on his chair, if he slept at all. But Petyr did have his own apartment on the edge of town, and a proper lay down on a bed sounded fantastic. 

As he went, Petyr was careful to walk against the shaded side of the street, which was where humans often avoided in the cold months. It cut down on the amount of conversations he was roped into, but idle chatter wasn’t his goal this morning.

He was on the hunt for the man with tainted blood. Many of the men of the village could definitely be described as  _ average. _ If even Ros couldn’t remember a thing about him, then perhaps this task was easier than it appeared. No remarkable features – no limp, or scars, or curious birthmarks – meant Petyr was hunting for a walking textbook figure of a man. As he passed each house, he imagined the people inside, and assessed the young men for anything that could cross them off the list.

Petyr slowly made his way down the main street. It started in the south, leading to the forest and the supposedly abandoned castle beyond, winding this way and that for a mile before reaching the edge of the first of many cliffs. There was one narrow road from here to the village at the base of the mountain, where anyone coming up or down had to traverse. Young men of romancing age showed their courage by taking a cart and goat down into the lower village once the snows cleared up, and sometime before the first sticky snowfalls, hope to successfully woo a young lady to be his bride. Not all boys were successful on their first try. It usually took three or four years, or if they were too afraid, they’d take the hand of a girl already atop the mountain. But when they did succeed, he and his fiancee would climb back up each miserable foot back to the village, and kiss kiss, marry, have children, fall in love, watch their own children marry and fall in love, and die. It seemed a dreadful cycle. But it was all they knew, and so they kept to the cycle like clockwork.

Petyr decided to stop ruminating on that dismal lifestyle and began eavesdropping on conversations as he took this rare morning stroll (continue to say “Hello” to passersby. Everyone knew the village doctor, and everyone at some point owed their life to Petyr. It was, if anything, a bit too much).

“I fashioned up a stew with all those bruised veggies my idiot son ruined when he fell on ‘em. Can’t believe he said he ‘didn’t see ‘em’. Bah! Glad he wasn’t any fatter, though, or he’d have turned ‘em to puree.”

Nothing useful. Next.

“Symone was out climbing up that gods-damned tree again, right? You know, that gnarled one the cats all love to hide in? And she picked some of those little white plants in that garden up the hill, you know the hill by tree. She picked them plants she’d recognized from the baker, and tried putting it in our broth last night. Not sure if Symone did it right, but... _ well _ .” Dramatic pause. “Let me just say, I never realized how  _ good _ things could taste!” 

So much talk of food, it made Petyr’s stomach growl. Next.

“Poor girl,” a chattering older lady proclaimed. Her hair was swept up in a checkered scarf, a huge wool shawl making her nothing more than a human face and hands crammed into a pile of clothes. “To think she has to run that whole shop on her own.”

“The new girl?” a second equally-dressed lady replied. She leaned on a cane. “Her fiance might come back from the forest.”

“If a fellow doesn’t come back from the forest, then they ain’t coming back from the forest. You should know that by now.”

“I know, but best not to say that to her. Would frighten any new girl, ‘specially when she’s come from so far.”

“Down the mountain ain’t so far, really,” the first lady grumbled, tightening her scarf knot. 

“She’s not from down the mountain. Have you seen her?”

“Yes she is. You think that boy would’ve spent his tie searching? He found the first girl to say ‘okay, why not’ and brought her back.” She shuffled, and her joints creaked in the cold. “But I suppose with these knees, it’d take a miracle for me to get back down there.”

“The Seven don’t hand out meagre miracles to ordinary folks like us.” 

“She can take any one of the available boys for her husband, with her looks.” The woman tapped her foot against the edge of the building twice, for good luck and health. “My grandson should be marrying age by springtime. She can take him.”

“Who, Rynald?” The first lady cackled, slapping her knee. “He’s hardly fit to marry any of the piggies my children raise!”

That conversation deviated from anything useful. 

It went on like that for the whole mile, and by the time Petyr was able to peer over the cliff to the speck of houses down the mountain, the sun was truly awake. He had to give credit to anyone brave enough to climb  _ down _ the mountain. Going up, at least, you need only look at the sky and forget how far above the ground you really are.

That was one of the reasons he didn’t care to leave. That, and the anonymity, and the surprising number of nightfolk in the castle (steadily outnumbering the humans). Nevertheless, with the weight of Robert’s and all nightfolk’s mortality hanging in the air, he took a step away from the edge, just in case.

“Best turn in for the day,” Petyr mumbled to himself. His quaint rooms were, thankfully, on this edge of town, and it wasn’t long before he found himself free of the damnable sun. It wasn’t that nightfolok shriveled up and died at the briefest touch of sunlight. Rather, their skin was highly susceptible to burning (though not from moonlight, curiously). It also made him feel heavy, sluggish, to the point where after a few minutes taking a single step towards shaded shelter was too much an effort. If Petyr had been out a few moments longer, he’d wind up a puddle of goo by evening.

He cracked into his personal spiced blood stash. Lightly seasoned with thyme and clove and nutmeg (barely a pinch of each. Bland food was preferable for their heightened senses, but no one could survive on mushy boiled veggies for life). Petyr greedibly drank two mouthfuls before languidly rolling the third around his tongue.

Was there anything sweeter than this?

The spices in the blood made his stomach momentarily forget he hadn’t eaten a proper meal. He didn’t bother to keep food in his sparsely-decorated home (perhaps there was a singular potato in one of the cupboards, slowly growing its own colony). But blood –  _ that  _ he always had plenty to spare. And this batch of spiced blood was  _ good _ ; more than good,  _ bloody fantastic _ (if one would pardon him for the pun). This particular blend of spices was reminiscent of the blood sausages Petyr ate long ago as a boy, growing up in a part of the country that was just as cold. Though, as a human, he did remember heaping in copious spices to drown out that dreaded metallic tang. Now, the measurements were reversed. One of those tricks of fate best remembered in hindsight.

More than that, his private stash of spiced blood was something he’d never share with Robert. The ‘king’ would  _ demand _ it for every meal, evening midnight and dawn of every gods-damned day. Petyr bribed the man with the occasional drunken blood to get him off his case. 

Even with the night’s events hanging in the background, his body was begging for rest. A nap sounded delightful right now, especially on a blood-full stomach. He rolled another mouthful of blood, working to identify each speck of spice as it tickled across his tongue. He wondered if this was the batch where he experimented with onions. Imam – a lovely little lady who lived with her grandson, and whom Petyr helped set her bones when she slipped on wet grass shooing the neighbor’s cat from her garden – gave Petyr some of  _ her _ secret stash. Half of a tiny onion, which Petyr then carefully diced and cooked, dried up, then ground into powder. Just the tiniest pinch in his recent spiced batch. And...yes, that was definitely it, swirling around his tongue.

He loved grilled onions before he died, but their stench was enough to kill him again that he could only tolerate it in very, very,  _ very _ small doses. Perhaps the worst part of this curse was being unable to eat truly rich, flavorful foods anymore. Not that he had that luxury in his final days; the war was filled with food even  _ more _ bland than the villagers here ate. There’d been one day, perhaps a week before he died, where his company stopped off in a little village just like this. It reminded him of home, and he couldn’t help but say yes to a bit of blood sausage when offered (a bit of foreshadowing, looking back). It was a different blend of spices than the recipe from his childhood. It was  _ good _ , though. It made him forget for a short while that he was entrusted to heal the men and women dying from wounds in a pointless war. But no matter which spices you used, you could never cover up that distinct metallic aftertaste of blood. He loved it now. But as a human, he soured his face when a particular bite was too iron-y.

Petyr froze his reminiscing.

Could the spices have been a cover for the poison? No, because then that man would have been poisoned, too. And surely Ros would have noticed something up with his blood when she sampled it. Ros said he seemed fine, likely the symptoms of a nasty hangover. Unless…

Unless it was something she didn’t recognize. Both he and Ros knew the unique taste and texture of the different plants and herbs growing in this region. So, if it had been something else, something not native to these mountains, she might have assumed it was something innocuous. And as proven by the thrall Janiyah, a small dose wasn’t enough to incapacitate.

No, that was too far-fetched. No one came up the mountain who didn’t already live here, and the very occasional traveling merchant did so to bring rare mountainous plants back down.

But  _ what if. _

_ What if  _ something nasty had found its way into this sleepy mountain village, and it had the power to kill those who thrived in the night. 

Oh, now that that idea was in his head, Petyr was going to be up all day mulling on it and swirling it about his brain. The only solace (or maybe torture) was the sun was out in full swing and Petyr was forced with nothing but his thoughts and a now-sour batch of his finest spiced blood.

So much for a nap.

* * *

Petyr yawned as he watched the village turn in for the night, lights snuffing out one by one until only a smatter of candles flickered dimly through shaded windows. He traced them into a constellation: perhaps a prancing deer, or a dove in flight. Above, the stars shone brilliantly, and the barest hint of a moon sat mixed up in clouds littering the black sky. Where Petyr came from, they believed the moon to be the eye of a large goddess, blinking once every four weeks. Children were warned to be on their best behavior on days nearest the full moon. 

Petyr always thought a month to blink was ridiculous. As a boy, he tried to match the goddess, lasting maybe thirty seconds. But he understood her now. Hardly anytime passed at all before the snows threatened to cage people in their homes again. Hardly anytime before festivals shouted the joys of surviving to a new spring, or the village boys ventured down for their brides. Maybe the goddess was up there now, watching his interminable life.  _ Oh, you’re still here _ , she says after every blink.  _ For a moment, I lost you. But I wonder, when will I shut my eye and you won’t be here anymore.  _

Beneath him through layers of stone and wood and straw, the girl stirred.

Petyr stifled a yawn, regretting not bringing the half-finished bag of spiced blood as he waited. It seemed a waste to drink it when he couldn’t savor the savory taste. He mulled on his newfound theory all day, pacing back and forth across his small apartments. He debated going to tell Robert about this idea, and thought it better not to waste the ‘king’s’ time with anything other than results. Besides, that man didn’t care about the  _ why’s _ and the  _ how’s. _

Besides that, there were definitely things he was meant to be doing right now. Attending to any potential nighttime patients in the hospital, for a start. Thankfully he had Ros, and thankfully the village was quiet past sundown. 

Another hour passed. The straggling candlelights had long ago blinked out one by one, leaving gaping black windows in their place. Petyr sensed stillness in the room beneath him. He waited a few more minutes for good measure, counting the stars in the sky to pass the time. By the time his eyes started to burn (around the four-hundred mark), he made his descent.

Quietly, he entered the bakery (through the front door, he might add. The villagers had no reason to lock their doors, knowing every last secret of their neighbors down to how many freckles they had on their bums. Well, everything but the growing horde of nightfolk, but it was better that way).

The bakery was not his first stop of the night. He visited sweet little Imam to inquire about her onions: she brought them with her from her childhood home down south before her family moved here and there before settling at the base of the mountain. They rarely grew bulbs, and more often than not they were left with nothing but a few green tops to dice into stews. She kept a little pot in the east window of her house since she moved in and wed. And by some miracle this year, it sprouted a single, hearty white stalk. Her grandson wasn’t fond of the taste of onions (scandalous), and it just so happened that Imam slipped later that morning. And so, partially as thanks and partially at finding a kindred soul who loved (in a past life) onions, Petyr couldn’t pass it up.

The leftover bit was sitting in a cup of dirt by the eastern window in Petyr’s apartment. Perhaps he’d be lucky, too.

There were other stops to make tonight – not to mention he needed to find that man and question him. But something (perhaps his stomach) led him here, and hopefully to a new lead.

Yeast and flour and spices filled his nose. There was no homier smell, and Petyr lingered a moment in the doorway. Remembering a child who snuck rolls off the shelves and stuffed them into his mouth before the adults caught wind. They were still hot, burning his tongue, but somehow that bit of pain made the soft, buttery rolls taste infinitely better.

Just as quietly, Petyr shut the door behind him, stepping fully into the bakery. Silver moonlight gave the shop’s interior a unique feeling, almost as though this very room existed in another plane, frozen for the rest of time. Cloth-lined baskets sat empty save for crumbs, eagerly awaiting the morning’s fresh loaves to fill their bellies. Little wooden nameplates sat in a stack, chalk smudges a testament to their use. The one on the top used to advertise  _ honey and cinnamon loaf, _ something that made his stomach growl enough to wake the dead. 

Canisters and jars lined the back shelf, full of flour and sugar and all manner of nuts and spices Petyr could and couldn’t instantly identify. There was an ice chest filled with a mixture of milk and butter. A rack designed for carefully cradling eggs. 

Moonlight in the front made it  _ look _ like it was a different reality, but the backroom of the shop (which ate up just over half of the first floor)  _ felt _ like it. The room was lined with ovens, whose stomachs were a pale red against the darkness. In the center stood a single wide table, piled high with bowls and trays and tools. There was a small basket at the base, rejected rolls and sweets lining the bottom long-gone cold. They still smelled divine, and Petyr had to stop himself from plucking one out and devouring it.

On top of the workstation was a hefty recipe book, currently open to that honey and cinnamon loaf from today’s batch. He wondered how many unique recipes she baked each day, idly flipping through the next few pages. There were notes in the margins in various penmenships – perhaps this was the baker’s collection family recipes, to be passed down to a little boy or girl in years’ time. Petyr only looked at a handful of pages before he had to stop; partly because he realized he was prying, but mostly because his mouth was watering.

Overall, it was a very ordinary bakery.

Petyr returned to the front of the shop. Perhaps, in another time, he might have frequented a shop just like this. Chatting with his neighbors as the intoxicating scent of fresh bread filled the shop and the street, drawing the whole village inside its cramped walls. Buying up loaves and the occasional jam-filled pastry.

There were some mortal pleasures that even the undying couldn’t deny.

Petyr returned to the jars of spices and flowers, the reason for sneaking in here in the first place. Some were obvious from their appearance – salt and honey, cinnamon and clove and nutmeg, rosemary and thyme. Others sent him back decades ago, identifiable not by name but by a smudge on his caretaker’s apron or a howling thunderstorm. Still others he could only identify as  _ sharp _ or  _ crisp _ or  _ overpowering.  _ None of them were immediately obvious as dangerous plants villagers accidentally came into contact with. No secret stash of azaleas or foxgloves that she ground down into the loaves for people she didn’t particularly like.

Besides, it wasn’t good business sense to kill the people she was trying to feed.

There was a community garden just outside of the buildings, the next stop on his investigation. Early on, Petyr scouted it and the forest, learning every herb and weed that grew in order to make his tinctures or to warn the villages of contact. But like Imam and her onions, perhaps one of the newest brides-to-be came with a relic from home. 

And the girl must be nice, planting it in the garden for her new neighbors. Someone came by just as she finished (“There’s a spot of dirt on your face, just there”). And in the girl’s excitement – and as thanks – she shares the onion (but not an actual onion).

So that new friend of hers tests it in their dinner, praises it in the morning, and mouth-to-ear the news spreads until everyone is trying it in their soups. Like an epidemic.

And wouldn’t you know it, the young girl running this bakery just so happens to be new to the mountains. And according to little-old-lady gossip, her fiance has gone missing in the forest. Petyr hoped the boy wasn’t a casualty in a hunt, and made a note on his ever-growing list of ‘things to do’ to ask around for him.

_ Poor, naive girl, _ Petyr thought as he carefully pried open a wooden box. Purple and yellow pansy petals. The flowers were just out of season. There were some other flowers in the last boxes he checked.  _ She brought these spices along with her in good faith, hoping to make people happy with her humble work. And instead, you might be killing people you never knew existed. _

Nothing screamed out to him so far. His next stop was the garden, just outside of town. 

Petyr headed for the door, pausing with his hand on the knob. He sensed the girl was still sleeping upstairs. Not once did she stir whilst he snooped around. He didn’t get a look at her that morning, and something compelled him to do so right then. Maybe it was the spices, and the longing for a home he could never go back to (and the longing for a simpler time, before the war and his transformation).

_ I don’t care how you do it, _ Robert’s voice echoed in his mind.  _ But fucking take care of it. _

Petyr didn’t have the evidence to prove it was this naive girl. Nor did he have the guts or the moral failing to kill her for her honest ignorance (children were taught which plants were poisonous, but only to humans). So if by chance it did prove to be her, he’d warn her that some folks in the village have been showing signs of sickness in the past month, and signs point to a newfound spice her wonderful bread. “I can’t live knowing people are getting hurt, that they are dying and I can’t do anything to stop it.” A hand over his heart, a misting of tears in his eyes. “I must beg of you, please stop using that delicious but poisonous plant.”

Was that a bit much? Maybe.

Petyr’s feet were silent as he climbed and entered her rooms. There was no kitchen, but a small sitting area separated guests from her more private quarters. A trunk sat against one wall, thick blankets and wool clothing piled atop. Likely recently bought for her new life as a bride of the mountain. 

A coat two times her size hung on a peg just inside the door, and a pair of boots bigger than even Petyr’s sat beneath. There was mud caked on, long-dry. He couldn’t smell anything distinctly masculine in the rooms (although, bread and spices filled the whole building, even the nooks and crannies. It was difficult to make use of his nose).

_ I should head back. _

Yet something else but his investigation had pulled him here. It was more than the bread making his feet stop in their tracks that morning. It was the reason he decided this was his first stop of the night. He smelled it now. It had been faint on the first gloor, with all the mouthwatering flavors. But the spices and flour were lighter here (though not much. A human might not notice it). And he could sense that something that drew him here.

That drew Petyr to stand over her. 

Despite being alone, she kept to her side of the bed. She had her face buried in her pillow, a thick blanket pulled up beneath her chin. All that was visible was a fiery splay of curls across white pillows. And her hand, poking out from the blanket, as though it was too hot with it tucked beneath, but just right with it exposed. It sat on her pillow, palm up, fingers softly curled.

Petyr caught himself staring at her wrist. At the green-blue vein stark against her pale skin. She was most definitely a human – her blood sang too loud, her heart beating too happily. He idly wondered if she was having a good dream.

Leaning just close enough, Petyr inhaled. Through the hanging fog of bread, he detected no maladies within her blood. She smelled young and full of life, and just like the bakery she worked and lived in. Surrounded by her trade day in and out, it was no wonder the spices she worked diligently within her dough clung onto her skin like a second shell. If he only had his nose, he wouldn’t even know she was here.

But...there. There was that something to her that was unique. It made Petyr curious. No. Intrigued? Excited? Aroused?

His eyes flashed to her exposed wrist again.

Perhaps it was the cloying, unending onslaught to his senses that made his nose and eyes water just a bit. Perhaps it was the endless nights and the lack of sleep, the shadow of death hanging over Robert and the nightfolk. Perhaps it was the delectable taste of spiced blood that had him craving more and more until his belly was fit to burst. 

_ Just a prick.  _ Petyr could tell from her breathing and the speed of her heart that she was firmly in a deep sleep. She wouldn’t notice if a spider crawled down her arm, and so she wouldn’t notice as Petyr slowly, gently, carefully lifted her hand.

And then slowly, gently, carefully lowered his mouth to her littlest finger.  _ Just a tiny prick, a single drop of blood.  _

Petyr inhaled her scent. There was perfume on her wrist, recently applied. Perhaps  _ that _ was the source of the curious scent he couldn’t identify. It was vaguely familiar; perhaps a taste he had once, or the perfume of someone he passed briefly.

His canine touched her skin, pierced it. He didn’t let the venom seep into her system (it was too small a wound anyway, but he had to be careful). He waited three heartbeats for that lovely drop of crimson to well up. 

All the while Petyr stared at her sleeping face buried in her pillow. She didn’t so much as stir.

_ Just a drop.  _

As Petyr licked her blood, he found the word he was looking for.  _ Compulsion. _ Something about this girl – once he sighted her – compelled him to come here, to seek her out, to drink her blood. 

Just a single drop, but Petyr savored it on his tongue. It had been...gods,  _ decades _ since he last tasted blood fresh from a human body. So unlike the blood he collected from his patients. It was the difference between buttery warm bread fresh from the ovens, and a stale chunk of loaf that had been sitting out since morning. 

The girl remained motionless. His gaze fell to that pinprick on her finger.  _ Two drops, that’s all. _

He waited ten quick heartbeats for the second lovely drop of her blood. His body was awakening to the instinct of drinking fresh blood: senses sharpening, preparing to stalk and hunt and kill – to survive by any means necessary – until that dreadful thirst was sated. And Petyr  _ was _ hungry, wasn’t he? He only drank a tiny bit of that spiced blood, and it had been an awful long time since his last meal, an eternity since his last proper meal, hasn’t it? Why stop at two drops of blood, why not sink his teeth in right there in her wrist? Her veins were pulsing words of  _ Bite me, bit me. _ Or better yet, sink his teeth into her– 

Petyr dropped her hand and stumbled back. 

Oh. Oh right. 

He clamped down his mouth, squeezing his eyes tight. He’d forgotten that feeling. He wished he could forget it again. That, that... _ euphoria _ , of drinking blood straight from the source. The overwhelming urge to  _ consume _ . To take and take and take. Not realizing the body beneath him was struggling to break free – because all that mattered was the hot blood that flowed down his throat like the finest ambrosia.

And how could he have forgotten? The last time he drank blood from a living, breathing human, was the last time his accidental prey drew breath. 

Peytr blinked, once, twice; smashing his eyes closed tight enough moonlight spiderwebbed behind his eyelids. 

Something familiar bubbled up from the darkest recess of his soul, worming its way up and up, climbing each rib one at a time, then his spine, before crawling into the space behind his ears. It was a lusty voice, filling his head with a simple command:

_ Drink her, drain her dry. Devour her whole.  _

Petyr recoiled away, stumbling for the stairs. 

He tripped – maybe, he wasn’t sure where his feet were. His head was swirling, body uncertain which was up and which was down. Petyr fell, head smashing against the floorboards. 

The world went black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ I wish I could say the next chapter will be up (very late) tomorrow, but I don’t have much of it done :( And so begins my late updates - I’m sorry! ]


	3. a distant enemy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ Of all the weeks to be super busy at work, it /had/ to be during AG week :/ Ihope y’all are still in the mood for this strange vampire story in November…
> 
> Anyways, I would like to comment that this fic is, without a doubt, something that should be 12 or 15 chapters long (maybe even 20). Instead I’m cramming the whole thing into 7. Seven! No wonder these chapters are crazy long. 
> 
> TW for violence/gore ]

Wherever Petyr was, it was hot. Maybe he found himself this one of those hells humans wailed about. A place where they begged for their souls – when stripped bare of their mortal bodies – to wind up anywhere else.

Did nightfolk like him even _ have _ their souls? Or, when he died again for the second and last time, was what greeted him an expanse of nothingness? An afterlife void of meaning, of time or space or memory. Doomed to forget and be forgotten.

Except Petyr was definitely heating up, sweat trickling down his spine. And trickling back into his mind were the memories from last night that made him wish he  _ had _ died and succumbed to absolute darkness. He’d been snooping about the bakery. He’d been hoping to find a trace of whatever poisoned Robert. And he had...slipped? Tripped on something? Petyr definitely remembered a  _ thwhack _ , and the pounding ache against his skull was proof enough. 

He’d been running away. Not because he was caught, but because Petyr had fallen back into the arms of that basest instinct he so desperately worked to tamp down.

He drank a human’s blood, straight from her veins.

Noises filtered in. Chatter, footsteps, the crinkle of paper and a quiet giggle. A door in the next room swung open and closed, and suddenly it was quiet.

Not entirely. Soft footsteps came towards him, and Petyr cracked his eyes open. The world was impossibly bright. Sunlight; the world was filled with sunlight, and Petyr was not allowed anymore to live beneath its warm, welcoming heat.

A girl –  _ the  _ girl – popped her head in. There was a smear of flour on one cheek. In the pale morning light, her hair was brighter than Petyr remembered it: brilliant oranges and reds of a late-summer sunset. It was tied back in a loose ponytail, freeing her face and eyes for her work. Eyes (a brilliant blue) that immediately fell on him, as though she already knew he was there. “Oh, you’re awake!”

_ Does she remember last night? _ Despite the heat, his heart beat coldly inside his ribs. Petyr wasn’t sure if she awoke when he nibbled her finger. But she definitely awoke when Petyr stumbled away after that sudden rush of bloodlust. “I’m–" Petyr began, trying to figure out how to introduce himself.  _ Hi, I’m the fellow that snuck in here last night and wound up tasting your blood. Oops, my bad! _ “I should take my leave.”

He stood, the world slipping beneath his feet. He shot a hand for the ovens to steady himself. Instead of stone he found flesh. Petyr pulled his hand away but her grip was strong.

“Careful there,” she helped him lean back against the stones. The ovens were bright and hot, yet soothing. “Wouldn’t want you falling again. You must have been pretty drunk last night, huh?” Her voice was sweet as honey. He wanted to inhale it, to see if perhaps her lips tasted like it too. 

Petyr instead focused on the spots of flour and dough sticking to her face. So he could look at her without looking at her. 

So, he  _ had _ fallen last night. Or, maybe that’s what she thought she saw; people were only as perceptive as their senses allowed them. If she heard a noise and saw a stranger passed out at the base of her stairs, her brain would immediately fill in the answer: someone mistakenly took her house for his, and on his way out tripped and fell.

Not like Petyr was going to correct her.

He shut his eyes and breathed deeply. Petyr had tasted drunk blood before (naturally. He needed to know what it felt like, so he knew the difference needed between a light buzz and totally trashed. He was immensely thankful for Ros’ assistance). Drunk blood was nothing compared to this. This pounding, aching hangover. His sudden fixation with this girl and her blood. He focused on the crackling of wood, on the wind scraping against the outside; anything but the delicate  _ ba-dump _ inside her chest.

_ It’s only because I haven’t drunk a human’s blood like that in forever. _ Maybe like her, Petyr’s brain was unwilling to accept any other truth.

“I’m–" Petyr clamped his lips shut. Humans didn’t often notice the most obvious trait of being a nightfolk: sharpened canines designed to pierce skin and secret numbing venom (like certain varieties of snakes. Though Petyr thought  _ nightfolk _ had a nicer ring than  _ snakefolk _ ). He felt...conscious, maybe, of her noticing his teeth. Of the possibility she would realize what he truly was: a monster. 

As if she would make the connection to the tiny prick on her tiny finger to his teeth. Petyr was just making a big deal out of nothing. Probably.

“I’m sorry.” he said again, not bothering to feign the headache. He really had hit it. “I don’t really remember much of last night.”

“It’s fine. I don’t blame you for mistaking this for your house.” The girl motioned to the room. The ovens were in full swing, highlighting everything in a soft orange glow. The scent alone enveloped Petyr like the thickest furs during a blustery night. “The smell of fresh bread can lure even a dying man back from the dead.” 

Her innocent words came dangerously close to the truth. Petyr made a show of looking at the ovens, as though just realizing they were there. He made a show of sniffing the air and the wonder fragrances tickling his nose. He made a show of trying to forget last night’s bloodthirsty desire. “Ah, well, I wish I could say I  _ had _ been drunk. It would’ve been a better excuse. I just... I’ve had some long nights at work. Not drunk, just tired.” 

“I don’t think we’ve met yet?” She said, tilting her head a moment before her eyes snapped open. “Oh, it’s you.” 

Petyr’s heart skipped a beat. Cold blood ran colder. 

The girl clapped her hands, glee crinkling the corners of her eyes. “From yesterday morning! Yes, it is you. You came by to buy some bread, but it wasn’t quite ready. I wished you had stopped by to chat – I don’t know everyone in town yet, but everyone’s been so friendly! I had wanted to talk to you. And now, well, I suppose my wish came true. Though not in the way I was expecting.” 

The girl closed her eyes when she smiled. She was so sweetly innocent, so sweetly pure, it made Petyr’s canines ache. “The world works in mysterious ways, sometimes.”

“It does,” she agreed, and there was a note of sadness in her voice. She caught herself, perking up as she urged a bread roll into his hands. Petyr hadn’t noticed it. “In that case, I  _ insist _ you have this one. To make up for the bread you couldn’t have yesterday.”

It wouldn’t do to be inhospitable, considering Petyr was the one who broke into her place in the first place. He took it with a nod of  _ thanks _ , trying to find the pinprick of his bite on her finger. He didn’t see anything. Petyr also stopped himself from splitting her hand open and sucking her blood as it fell between delicate fingers.

“It smells wonderful.” There was a familiar yet unknown scent to the bread, one of the numerous spices he sniffed last night. Petyr took a bite. It was warm, a soft, flaky outside giving way to an even softer inside. Gods, he nearly moaned.

It was a toss-up which was better: fresh bread, or fresh blood.

She smiled wide, in an ‘another satisfied customer’ way. An nail clattered from a candle, and she stood to check on the current batch of bread. Half the ovens were still in full swing, likely working on the thicker loaves. There weren’t any breads proving on the workstation, nothing left on the table but a smattering of flour and a teetering tower of bowls stacked on top of each other. They once held flour and yeast and fruits. From the front of the shop, Petyr could smell her hard work wafting in the air: buttery rolls and sugary cinnamon loaves and pastries filled with sliced apples and pears. 

He took another bite, wanting to savor her generosity. There was butter in the soft inside, and a sprinkling of salt on the crust. And if Petyr was really trying, he thought he could make out her scent worked into the dough. But if he was being honest, he was only imagining things. 

_ I’m only obsessed because I haven’t done that since… _ he let his mind trail back to the sliver of bread left in his hands. He bit that small bite in half.  _ It could have been anyone’s blood I drank. _

It wasn’t like her blood was special. 

“I’m Petyr,” he said, plopping the last bit in. “I’m one of the doctors in town.” There was no use lying in a village this small. Besides, once winter rolled around and he made his house calls, they’d get to know each other. 

She’d been shuffling various-shaped breads around. None of the pans matched, nor did her towels. “A pity. My papa always said I was too stubborn to catch the cold.” She laughed, but there it was again, a chink of sadness in her heart. “But, it’s a pleasure to meet you, mister– er,  _ doctor _ Petyr.”

“Please, no need for the formalities. Especially not after I’ve woken up passed out in your bakery before even getting to know your name.”

“Then I’ll tell you now. I’m Sansa.”

_ Sansa.  _ Even her name tasted sweet. Petyr silently rolled it around his tongue. “A pleasure to meet you.”

She pushed her thumb into a wide round loaf that smelled of rosemary. She frowned when it didn’t pop up. “Back in for a few minutes for you,” she said to it.

Petyr watched her work. The backroom was mostly lit by the ovens, but a trail of grey dawn light peaked in through the only door. Through it was the front of the shop, and through that was the outside world. It would have been easy to excuse himself, saying he needed to get back to work. Petyr stayed in the hospital during the days, deciding which patients to tend to based on where the sun fell through the windows. There was also that whole Robert-nearly-died-and-I-need-to-figure-out-how-and-if-it-was-intentional thing.

Somehow, Petyr couldn’t convince his feet to move.

“Was your family bakers, too?”

Sansa tended the fires. “Not particularly. We baked simple loaves back home. Big ones, so we could keep the ovens hot all day and warm the house.”

“Was it cold back home?”

“Very. Much colder than here, though I haven’t experienced the mountain’s winter yet.”

“It can be deadly. Especially since you can’t leave once the snows are settled.”

“Is that the only way up and down?”

She was referring to that winding path to the village below. Petyr had to admit in his many years working here, he never ventured down since. Not like he had a reason to leave. Things were safer up here. Humans didn’t know about nightfolk up here.

“On this side of the mountain. There’s another path on the other side, though I’d bet that’s even more treacherous. There’s only rocks down below.”

“Really?” Sansa fiddled one of the oven’s kindling, taking out some sharp narrow branches to replace with a thick log. The fire died to a barely-there red. “Then I suppose it’s a good thing I’ve made friends with the doctor. You’ll keep me alive through the winter?”

_ If I can stifle my hunger for you that long. _ Petyr rid himself of the thought. “Of course. You, and everyone else.”

Sansa finished up, stretching as she stood. Her face was red, matching her hair. “Oh, have you finished it already? Here, have another.” She plucked a fresh roll from the oven, tossing it between her palms before depositing it in Petyr’s. He cradled it in his hands. It wasn’t burning hot, but he’d need to wait a moment before taking a bite. The warmth spreading up through his arms was worth the pain of the heat.

“May I ask, what do you put in these to make them impossibly addicting?” Even now, he was resisting the urge to burn his tongue with a bite.

Sansa smiled again (he was rather enjoying that look on her). “Oh, a little bit of this, little bit of that. Super secret family recipe.”

“Eh?” Petyr raised a brow. “So if I were to marry you and become your family, you’d be obligated to share?”

The joke didn’t land as intended. Sansa (face still red) blushed, looking away. “I suppose I would.” She scuttled away to the workstation, tidying up things that didn’t need tidying. 

He forgot: she  _ already was _ promised to someone. And from the way she responded, she must have come to really care for the boy. Petyr was considering that bite to burn his tongue, in repentance. “I’m sorry.”

His apology came just as the front door opened, cold air rushing towards the ovens. “Oh, a customer. Back in a tick!”

He burned his tongue. “I can blame this hangover for that, too,” he mumbled to himself. There was a crispness to this roll, the insides melting in his mouth. Innocence was no measure for how impossibly good her bread was.

Petyr settled atop one of the ovens that was done for the day. He remembered them being warm last night, and wondered if they ever shut off. Perhaps she kindled them all day, even before bed, to make sure they were always the perfect temperature for her work. That would explain why she took so long to get to bed last night.

Last night. 

Sansa’s fiery hair splayed over white sheets. A delicate palm facing him, veins beating to the tune of:  _ Bite me, sink your teeth, swallow me up. _ If Petyr had gone for her wrist instead of her pinky, would she have had enough blood to wake up and bake her bread this morning like it was any ordinary day?

Or would her body be laying upstairs, eyes unmoving, cold?

He shook his head. 

From the front of the shop, Sansa was chatting about the day. “What a turn of weather! Does it always go like this when winter nears?”

“It acts like this even in the middle of the summer. You’ll get used to it once you’ve been here a few years, lass.” That sounded like… Kirkpatrick? A middle-aged man, who tended the sheep. Must be having his kids herd them around in the mornings now. His knees didn’t get along with the cold.

“Oh, is that so? I’d prefer waking up knowing exactly what sort of day it is, so I don’t need to carry about a scarf and umbrella just in case.” 

The shepherd’s laugh was croaky. “Where did you say you were from again?”

“Oh, up north.” The sound of crinkling paper (she was wrapping up Kirkpatrick’s loaves, one, two three). Sansa paused, waving her hand in what Petyr imagined was an ‘it doesn’t matter’ motion. “A small village, just like this.”

“There’s plenty of ‘small villages like this’ all over the continent.”

“So it feels like home no matter which one you’re in.” There was no mistake she was dodging his actual question:  _ where, exactly, are you from? _

Kirkpatrick’s knees groaned. “What made you travel so far here, and up the mountain no less?”

“Well, you know, this and that. Before I knew it, I found myself at the village down-mountain.” More dodging questions. Was Sansa lying? Petyr didn’t know her enough to hear it in her voice. “But it’s lovely here! And I’m sure it’s even more beautiful come spring!”

They went about the weather again, then the old codger left. Sansa shuffled around in the front for another minute before coming to the back. She startled when she spied Petyr settled on top of the ovens. “Oh, I’d nearly forgotten you were here!”

“I think I know why I stumbled here last night,” Petyr lied, patting the oven beneath him. He realized then the second roll was gone, deposited bite by bite into his stomach. “Right here. This room is by far the best spot in the village in the winters.”

She nodded. “The kitchens were always busy back home, but never so much as the winter. We spent nearly all our time in the kitchen. It got cramped, what with all the children. But it was better, when we were all together like that.”

Again, that sadness. Petyr wanted to know, a part of him was  _ dying _ to pry into who she was. But like with Kirkpatrick, Sansa would conveniently avoid it. He couldn’t blame the girl, if her secret was dire. After all, if someone was trying to get Petyr to convict himself of being nightfolk, Petyr would feign ignorance until the cock crowed.

“It’s always the little things like this that you miss.” He spread his fingers against the stone, letting the heat run up his arms. “Simple comforts like this. Especially out on the battlefield.” Like fresh bread, or sleeping in your own bed, or the comforting arms of his caretaker. Even warmth was hard to come by in the medic tents. They couldn’t risk fire some nights, not even to sterilize their tools. It wasn’t Petyr’s fault too many young people died because the medics were under-equipped and unable to do their job. 

It wasn’t his fault.

Sansa stared at him: the barely-there wrinkles around his eyes, the slight hollowness of his cheeks, his own dark curls with just a touch of grey. Petyr stroked down his jaw. “That was some time ago, but I’ve a youthful figure.”

She smiled just a bit.

Besides, Petyr did the math. He could pass off as someone in their thirties or forties, which would put him between fifteen and twenty-five at the start of the war. Not an  _ impossible _ age. There were definitely  _ children _ packed and shipped to the frontlines, to fight for a cause they didn’t understand. 

Children who had no reason to die.

Sansa said, “I had friends, and family, who fought in the war, too.” Ending it there made it easy for Petyr to fill in the rest:

_ Except they didn’t come home. _

“It’s wonderful you’ve taken up this trade.” He patted the oven beneath him. Petyr didn’t want either of them to think of the war anymore. “Every day, you get to make people happy, whether they dig into your breads or even smell it walking past the shop. I think that’s what stopped me outside your shop yesterday. And it’s what lured me here last night. In all, we’re lucky to have you join our family.”

He hoped to lift her spirits. And Sansa  _ looked _ to be happier; a smile, a blush, fingers digging into her apron. Except her heart – her heart trembled. Her true emotions weren’t something she could feign with smiles, not to someone like Petyr.

The front door opened again, and her eyes lit up in  _ Oh thank the gods. _ “Back in a moment.”

“I’ll be heading out, too,” he called out. The day was young; plenty of time to rush through his ever-growing to-do list before the sun was high enough to slow him down. Petyr took a lap around the room. It wasn’t that he was  _ savoring _ it, like this was the last time he’d ever be here. 

He just...didn’t want to leave.

Once that customer is gone, he reasoned. Didn’t want to frighten the residents with hot gossip first thing in the morning. “Did you hear,” little old ladies whispered in the middle of the street. “That good doctor walked out of the newest bride-to-be’s house this morning.” 

“Really?” a second lady intoned for more.

“Really. And I heard something  _ better. _ ” She leans in. “He slept the  _ night _ . While her fiance has been away.”

Petyr was not immune to viral gossip, not of the  _ scandalous _ variety. He could feign with, “Actually, I was on my way to the hospital this morning, and she called out to me saying she wasn’t feeling well. I went inside to check her vitals whilst she continued to work on her trade. I advised her to get some rest as soon as she’s done with the day’s loaves.”

It sounded professional enough. (“Oh, is  _ that all? _ ” the little ladies giggle. Never underestimate the all-knowing eyes of old, gossipy women).

“Any news of Harry?”

Petyr’s ears perked up. That was the name of the baker boy. The boy who Sansa was apparently wooed by some weeks ago. The boy who apparently wandered into the forest, and hadn’t been seen since.

Sansa sighed heavily. “Not yet. I’m worried. What if he realized he didn’t  _ want _ to be with me? And has regretted bringing me up here in the first place? I just… I can’t help but think that he’s left me...”

“Lass, no! May the gods strike him down if he has. But he hasn’t! He’s a good, proper lad, learned all he knew from his mother and loved her as much as he’ll love you. More, even. He’s just–" the voice stopped. That man knew  _ exactly  _ what had happened to the young baker who’s just come back from his trip down the mountain.

The gossip was plain and clear:  _ If a fellow doesn’t come back from the forest, then they ain’t coming back from the forest. _

“You really think he hasn’t left me?” Sansa asked. Her voice wavered. Deep down in her heart, she knew something wasn’t right. But she didn’t believe it entirely; a sliver of hope. After all, someone wasn’t actually dead until you saw their body.

“Nobody in their right mind would leave ya! I can promise you that. Any boy who sets his eyes on ya–" a  _ snap _ of his fingers, "–falls in love, just like that.  _ Quicker _ than that, I’d reckon!”

Petyr bristled at the use of  _ boy _ , and tried not to take to heart an old man’s ramblings.

Again, Sansa chatted about the weather; it was apparently overcast, clouds debating whether to drop rain or not. Eventually, the man left, and Sansa passed into the backroom just just as the front door whispered open again. 

She did not stop and turn around to greet them. Sansa entered the backroom, carefully shutting the door behind her save for a sliver. She glanced back at Petyr before peeking through the crack. He felt compelled to approach her, sensing one person in the front shop. There were a few people out on the streets, too, this early in the morning. Someone else was standing just outside the shop, though perhaps it was someone who made plans to meet up at the bakery for fresh rolls and fresh gossip.

There was a sour look on Sansa’s face, in tune with the beat of her heart. She peered through the crack a moment, and beyond the door footsteps shuffled around. It was only one person. Whoever it was, they casually picked up the day’s loaves, inspecting them before tossing them back in their baskets. 

Was there someone in this small village that didn’t take a liking to Sansa? Impossible. Unfathomable. One look at Sansa, and anyone would fall for her sweetness and charm. Petyr couldn’t wrap his head around the sudden idea that she, of all people – the sweet little baker girl who’s just arrived to the top of the mountain – had enemies.

And yet, someone with no enemies wouldn’t work to hide their past. Petyr knew  _ that _ well enough.

Sansa gently, slowly (so slowly it was like she wasn’t moving at all) closed the door, leaning her weight against it. Her heart picked up speed. There was a trickle of fear in her sweat. Sansa stared through the wood, as if she could sense the person on the other side.

(Which she couldn’t, not like Petyr could). So he focused on this sudden enemy, wondering if there was a familiar tick, a familiar scent. There  _ was _ something there. Beneath the alluring aroma of bread and spices. Yes. Something definitely familiar, in the sense that Petyr hadn’t sensed them in a while. 

And familiar in the sense that the hairs on Petyr’s neck stood up.

“What?” a voice grumbled just beyond the door, then a fist pounded. “Ain’t nobody home? Too chicken-shit to show your face?”

Sansa startled, pressing her whole body against the wood. Petyr wove his arm around hers, pushing too. The stranger continued, shaking the handle. “You making out back there, aren’t ya? Disgusting creatures.” Another pound. “If it is you, you little bitch, I’ll have your head!” 

One last whack against the door, for good measure. Whoever it was, they weren’t intending to break down the door and burn the bakery to the ground to get to Sansa.

At least, not yet.

Petyr glanced at Sansa, who sighed in relief as she slunk away from the door. Fear continued to course through her veins, a heady concoction that would have made Petyr’s instinct to hunt her overwhelm him – if he, too, wasn’t also afraid.

Because Petyr knew who came looking for her. And he didn’t want to imagine what would have happened if maybe Petyr hadn’t been there. 

He debated asking her about it.  _ That _ could have been why she was dodging all of the villagers’ questions. Or maybe not. He hardly knew Sansa, and knew getting involved with her problems was only inviting all sorts of trouble.

On the other hand: why not. They were new neighbors now (and perhaps something  _ more _ , though Petyr squashed that down as quick as it came). Besides, if Sansa did end up being indirectly involved in Robert’s poisoning, then best to have her on good terms. She could more easily confess.

No point beating around the bush now he’d fallen for her girlish charms. “Is something the matter?”

“No. No, it’s…” she looked through the door towards the front of the shop, expecting that person to still be there. Petyr could tell there was no one else inside or surrounding the bakery. “As the doctor, you know everyone in town, right?”

Petyr perked up. She was allowing him in, just a fraction. “Just about everyone. It’s a small village, though. You could ask everyone about anyone, and they can tell you the entire family history going back at least three generations.”

Sansa looked down, nibbling on her lips in a way that made them pucker, as though she was asking for a kiss. 

Petyr worked his memory, trying to think of other gossip he’d heard of the recent haul of new brides. Unfortunately, he only paid attention to  _ if _ the boys brought someone home, not  _ who, _ to make a mental note that there were more bodies he needed to attend to. In time, Petyr would meet the new girls; everyone got sick eventually.

“Is something the matter?” he repeated. He didn’t want to pry, but he kind of wanted to. He  _ really _ wanted to. 

“I… Well...” she started and stopped. There was no use lying, saying  _ Oh, no, actually everything’s hunky-dory! _ Sansa could lie to the villagers, but she couldn’t lie to Petyr, now that he saw something. Swallowing a deep breath, she found her question. “That fellow just now. Do you maybe know him?”

_ Against my better wishes. _ Only a rare few people could turn Petyr’s instincts to flight. And it just so happened to be one of those horrid creatures that had been here moments ago, looking for this sweet baker.

It was the ‘prince’.

Certainly not an average looking fellow, by any account. He inherited his mother’s good looks and thin temper. Sun-kissed golden curls and fat lips that always looked like he’d just snogged a girl in secret. Yet his fingers itched for some small slight. He was someone that was equally beautiful and hideous. 

And if  _ he _ was here, then no doubt his mother was lurking around the shadows, too.

“That’s the–" Petyr bit his tongue.  _ The ‘king’s’ son _ , he’d been about to say, so casually. He realized he was far too comfortable around this girl he knew for – what? – thirty minutes? “He used to live here. He comes back and visits, from time to time.”

Sansa was still staring through the door, at where the boy had been. Intently. In fact, she only just blinked. Petyr would have felt jealousy – her heart was beating a bit faster – but her face showed the truth of her obvious displeasure: a mouth turned slightly downwards, a crinkle in her brow. He couldn’t help but smile.  _ She doesn’t know his name, and yet he’s already made an enemy of her? A fool, but unsurprising. _

Unless  _ she _ made an enemy of him. Petyr’s smile disappeared. The ‘prince’ would stop at nothing to make sure people were punished.

“He used to live here?” Sansa repeated. “You mean, people are allowed to leave?”

Was that...longing in her voice? Or surprise? Petyr didn’t know her well (or at all); it was hard to judge if she spoke so simply and innocently all the time, or if there was a hint of a facade. “This isn’t a  _ prison.  _ You can go down the mountain whenever you want. Though, if you plan to leave, best go now before the snows come in. The path is far too dangerous with the snows.”

Even though Petyr wanted her to stay, he didn’t dare want her in danger because of that trigger-happy kid.

“And his name?”

Petyr chewed the name. It tasted like charcoal and dirt. “Joffrey.” Petyr inhaled the scent of fresh-baked bread, hoping to get rid of the taste of the ‘prince’ from his mouth.

There wasn’t a shadow of  _ a-ha  _ crossing her face. In fact, Sansa just look as displeased as before. How desperately Petyr wanted to pry – why was he here? Do you know him? Did you scorn him when he tried to kiss you, or touch your? – but didn’t. This made Petyr  _ more _ interested in the sweet, innocent baker girl, who wasn’t so innocent after all, if the sight of Joffrey was enough to raise her hackles. And his.

“Are you in any danger?” he said, hoping it sounded nonchalant and professional enough.

Sansa inhaled slowly. “He’s been–" before clamming up. Quickly she stepped away, checking on the breads again, even though the next nail marking the half hour was still far off from falling.

_ He’s been  _ __? What was that __? Too many things could fit, none of them good. The ‘prince’ was a dangerous boy, and that wasn’t factoring in the fact he was also nightfolk.

If Joffrey set his sights on Sansa…

Petyr clenched his fist. He had no reason to be so concerned over this girl. He had no reason to want to  _ protect _ her, or to pummel the ‘prince’ for making her afraid.

And Petyr sure as fuck had no reason to want to sink his teeth into her pretty skin. Again.

_ Professional, _ he told himself.  _ I need to be professional. _ “If he comes by again, or if you ever find yourself afraid, don’t hesitate to come to me. I’m in the hospital, most of the time. It’s the building on the end of the road there, with candles in the window at any time.” That was more  _ fatherly _ , but that was fine. 

Sansa continued working. Had she heard him? Or was she also lost in a whirlwind of thoughts. Petyr watched her work another minute, before collecting the strength to move his feet towards the exit.

“It’s just,” she began, quietly.

Petyr paused a moment on the threshold. There was a basket of fresh rolls steaming in her hands. She stared intently into the oven’s fire, mulling over whether to tell Petyr (who was quite literally a stranger) the truth. 

Her mouth opened and closed several times before she said, “I’m not sure if it’s him, but... I thought he might be someone, is all.”

* * *

Sansa returned to her work in silence, and Petyr left, blinking at the bright greyness of the world.

The world was painted in greys. The stone houses, the cobbled streets, the chickens and pigs pecking at their breakfast. Thick clouds hung in the sky, blotting away the colors. Rain was likely. Droplets would soon turn into slush, then lightly-sticking snow, before finally covering the ground in thick layers. Petyr wasn’t a fan of the cold, even though his body was less affected by it. He hated being cold, as much as he hated certain people that lorded their supposed  _ power _ over others.

After leaving Sansa’s bakery, Joffrey strolled through the village, commenting on “how it’s more shitty than I remember it.” Beside him was another nightfolk, one whose scent Petyr knew too well. Margaery. She clung to the ‘prince’ whenever he was around, and clung to just about anyone else when he was gone. She liked picking on Petyr, for reasons Petyr didn’t entirely know. 

It was also partly why Petyr let her pick on him: the possible wrath of Joffrey wasn’t worth shaking her off. 

One thing was for certain: Margaery was drawn towards  _ power, _ like nightfolk to blood. Petyr didn’t see himself powerful (certainly not in terms of muscle mass. He’d been slight, even as a human). One possibility was she thought Petyr – for bringing blood – had his own sort of power. As proven with Robert’s illness, Petyr could poison all the bloodbags and rid the mountain of all nightfolk save himself. That, definitely, was a tantalizing power no one should lord.

Or, she really only saw Petyr as a plaything whenever she was bored.

The only good thing to Joffrey being back meant that Petyr wouldn’t have to worry about dealing with that self-proclaimed ‘princess’.

Petyr passed by the hospital, knowing Ros was mentally screaming in worry after the debacle with the ‘king’. By now, she must have lied and said Petyr wasn’t feeling well. It wasn’t often the doctor succumbed to sickness, but it wasn’t like medics were superhuman against diseases.

Look at Petyr and Ros. Forced to live life like animals, forced to live off of blood. A disease with no cure, except for death.

How depressing this day was turning, after thost lovely few minutes spent with Sansa. If that fucker hadn’t barged in, perhaps Petyr would still be there. Stomach full of bread, senses full of her. 

Instead, he was tailing the ‘prince’s’ incredible boring morning. The boy wandered through the village’s outskirts, claiming he could “kill that whole herd of sheep there with my bare hands,” as if that was supposed to be impressive. Margaery latched on his words, knowing when to  _ ooh  _ and  _ ahh _ like a trained whore. 

Petyr kept the two on the edge of his senses, hoping that they were too oblivious to notice him tailing them. Joffrey was currently half a mile ahead of Petyr. He was heading through the forest, back to the castle. 

As he followed the boy, Petyr let his thoughts run free.

The person responsible for the tainted blood: was it Joffrey? Or Margaery? Or both?

It would be so damned convenient if it  _ was _ them.

Except Petyr couldn’t work out any connection. For a start, it was a villager’s poisoned blood that slipped into Petyr’s delivery. Blood that lured Robert in with its scent, and he drank the whole thing in one gulp. Did Joffrey somehow poison that man with some herbs, then send him to the hospital, and wait for the blood to reach Robert?

No, that was too risky, with such a low rate of success. Petyr would have tested the blood and found whatever was wrong with it, and it definitely would not have been on its way into Robert’s if not for Petyr’s error.

So… He was back at square one of how the (possible) murder happened. For all he knew, it really was an unfortunate stroke of luck.

But,  _ assuming _ it was an attempted murder. Why? And how?

Assuming it was either Joffrey or Margaery. To start, alibis. Margaery always stalked around the castle, preferring the company of nightfolk over humans. Whenever Petyr went to check on the refugees, she would sometimes be there, handing out food and blankets scavenged from other parts of the castle. As if to say “Hey, it’s okay, you’re welcome here. Anything we have is yours.” Petyr didn’t see the harm in her false smiles; after all, it made checking on and treating the frightened nightfolk easier if they were already at ease. 

He wondered if that was just a role she’d been so used to as a human, that she couldn’t shake it off after her death. Which might also be why she fluttered towards Joffrey the moment she laid her eyes on him. 

Joffrey’s excuse was he was off doing gods-knew-what with his mother. They never said why they went down the mountain for weeks or months at a time, and Petyr never asked. It was another one of those to-keep-my-head-where-it-is,-it’s-best-I-don’t-pry.

Petyr didn’t have nearly enough evidence to prove it was one of them (okay – he didn’t have  _ any _ evidence). If Petyr ruled out the humans on account that they didn’t  _ know _ about the nightfolk and therefore had no reason to off them, then either Joffrey or Margaery was the next best option. The queen loved her husband as much as Petyr tolerated the man. But she had reason to keep the ‘king’ alive. The other two....what did they gain from that old man dying?

A so-called crown, the keys to an unknown and already-dead kingdom.

During his decades after his death, Petyr experimented with all manner of his affliction: how did blood affect him, or the lack of it? Were there advantages to drinking human blood over animal blood? How has his body changed compared to other humans? What made him different?

Things that would have interested him whether he was nightfolk or not. The  _ whys _ of what made the not-dead alive.

There were other aspects of nightfolk that didn’t appeal to him. Namely, so-called  _ society _ and  _ lineages. _ Like monarchies of old, there was allegedly  _ pureblood _ lines that couldn’t not be tainted no matter the cost. Supposedly. Petyr was (at best) vaguely aware of bloodlines, and that the queen represented one sect of the pureblood yadda yadda. It was all rather boring. The only bit of that whole shtick that appealed to him was if there was any merit to having ‘pureblood’, or if it was all bullshit.

As if the queen would lend out some of her precious ‘pureblood’ for Petyr to test out his theories. 

So, assuming nightfolk society was as structured as monarchies, then perhaps there was some supposed crown either Joffrey or Margaery could inherit. But they’d need to off both the ‘king’ and queen. Was that how those things worked? The poisoned blood could merely have been step one in a very long game. Kill off one, then the other, then presto: we’re the new king and queen.

And somehow, Sansa was involved? Or, perhaps she really was nothing more than a widowed baker girl. She  _ was someone _ to Joffrey: a jilted lover, a purveyor of bread that he didn’t like, a girl that didn’t want to grovel at his feet. He went out his way to call her a ‘bitch’, but that didn’t really prove anything.

Petyr sighed. “This is all too much, and there’s only a fraction of it I really care about.”

Joffrey and Margaery, meanwhile, meandered this way and that through the forest. At one point, he tried to go after a boar, calling it a ‘worthless cunt’ when it charged him and nearly speared the boy. Margaery flattered him, promising he would kill the next one. It was plain to see Joffrey wasn’t nearly as good a hunter as his father, and sure as hells not as good as the ‘prince’ thought he was.

Not that Petyr thought the ‘prince’ was good at anything except being an annoying little shit.

By mid-morning, they made it to the castle. Not once did they flee to a cave or beneath a hollow tree to conspire their plan to murder Robert. At best, Margaery was pulling the same stunts she used on Petyr: clinging and whispering unveiled innuendos. Joffrey was either immune or stupid. Or both.

Watching them, it was plain they didn’t get along, but they didn’t  _ not _ get along. It was a strange partnership.

Petyr made it to the castle shortly after them. Tree cover helped fight back against the sun’s sluggish rays, but after so long outside, Petyr started to feel its effect. He strolled through the doors. Relishing in the cool darkness inside. The scent of fresh boar blood drew him to the tables. Even dead, he preferred his meat cook, choosing instead to dip a chunk of bread in blood, nibbling it. The bread was far from the delicacy he had that morning. The blood, too. Sansa’s was so sweet.

He grabbed an apple, biting a large chunk, not caring that it tasted mealy. He didn’t want to think about last night. 

Petyr lost sight of the two, and he was fine with that. For all his musing, he couldn’t piece Joffrey or Margaery as the (possible) murderers. Nor could he place anyone as murdering the ‘king’. The more Petyr thought about it, the more the whole near-death was nothing but a stroke of bad luck.

He chewed through half the apple, not tasting anything. He wondered if he could make it back to the village before the sunlight got the best of him. Maybe. He’d need to trek carefully through the trees.

But first. Petyr was here, he might as well check on her.

Despite the paltry guards outside the castle, the true security stood astride the stair’s entrance. And up he went, round and round, until Petyr made it to the top, finding two more guards. They weren’t beefy, burly men like Robert was (before he got fat). But they were still strong; men Petyr knew he wouldn’t stand a chance against in a fistfight. 

Petyr smelled the barest hint of blood on the other side of the thick door. She mustn’t have touched her food. Again.

He pondered the idea of  _ pure bloodlines _ again as he reached for the handle.

One of the guards slapped his hand away. Petyr looked up at him, affronted. “Am I not allowed in?”

“Robert’s forbidden anyone from entering.”

So the ‘king’ could still manage to be mildly competent? Except, wouldn’t it be better to have these men guarding the main entrances downstairs? But that wouldn’t do well to maintain Robert’s ‘I’m too strong to get sick, I’ll fight and fuck till I die!’ attitude. An attitude that was going to get that man killed, again.

Petyr plastered on a smile. “Ah, did he forget to tell you I’d be swinging by today? I’m the doctor, you see. And I’m assigned to–"

“Doesn’t matter.” The guard – was it Preston? Petyr really should get better at remembering faces – stared Petyr down. His veins thrummed with just-drank blood. It kept him alert, aware. “Have Robert come up here and tell us you’re allowed, and we’ll let you in.”

“Except Robert is bed-ridden for the next two weeks. Under doctor’s orders.”  _ My orders, you blathering idiot. _

“Then I suppose you’ll have to wait ‘till he gets better, won’t you? Now, leave her, before I chuck you down the stairs.”

Petyr didn’t doubt Preston could, or would. “Very well. I’ll be back as soon as I’m allowed.”

Petyr was loathing the day more and more. This morning, he has: tailed after Joffrey and wasted his time; and been unable to perform his duties and wasted his time. As if he needed anything else.

“You.”

Petyr froze. Oh, this day was going  _ splendidly. _ At this rate, all he had to do was run into Margaery on his way out, and he’d be one step closer to willingly jumping off the mountain. 

Oh, if only he could have stayed in Sansa’s bakery, wrapped in the scent of bread and her. The briefest taste of a peaceful heaven, before being shoved back into hell-on-earth.

Instead, Petyr had to deal with...this. Her.

He turned, forcing a smile and a bow. “Ah, Cersei. I wasn’t aware you were already back. Is your son with you too?”

“Why is there a–" she began, kind enough to stop herself from adding  _ rat _ to her warm greeting. She straightened. “Do you have business being here?  _ Here _ , specifically, Baelish?”

The difference between Robert and Cersei was plain as day and night. Petyr couldn’t understand the intricacies that kept them together, aside from their offspring. The ‘king’ certainly didn’t like her, and she certainly couldn’t stand him. And yet, neither had torn out the other’s throats yet.

Unless it was Cersei who wanted him dead, without staining her hands?

No. Petyr had the feeling the queen wouldn’t go the poison route. She’d want to feel the life slip out of Robert as she strangled him.

“I was merely doing my rounds. I plan to check if any of the rabble–" Cersei’s word, not his, "–needed any medical assistance.”

“They don’t need your help.”

“It’s just another of my duties.”

Cersei hadn’t been around when Petyr first arrived on the mountain, nor had she been around when Petyr decided to deliver the nightfolk blood. She was rarely around, to be honest. Petyr imagined all sorts of reasons: she was hunting the bastards who killed her family; she wanted to be the queen of  _ all _ nightfolk, murdering anyone who didn’t grovel at her feet; she was hoping to find some other girl to marry Joffrey instead of Margaery. The list grew less practical from there.

“Has there been any development?”

Petyr straightened. “I don’t know. She still refuses to eat.”

“How do you  _ not know? _ ” Cersei snapped. “ _ Is _ there something wrong with her?” It wasn’t anger in her voice; it was worry. 

“I don’t know, because I haven’t checked.” Petyr held in a sigh. “Unfortunately, with the poison Robert ingested and the uncertainty if it was intentional or not, I am apparently not allowed in without his explicit supervision.”

“I’ve heard about the poisoning.” The queen tilted her head. She was already taller than Petyr, there was no need. Maybe it was an unconscious habit. “How do I know it wasn’t  _ you _ who did it?”

This again. “Because I would neither let him live nor would I return to the scene of the crime. I assure you, I played no part in intentionally murdering him.”  _ Though there’s been plenty of times I wish I did.  _ Petyr could slip in a joke here and there with Robert – assuming it wasn’t too on-the-nose – but with Cersei, it was best to keep his mouth shut on any and all retorts, no matter how funny they were.

What a sad life she must live.

Cersei assessed him. Her hair was a shade lighter than he remembered. Physically, she must have died the same age as Petyr did. But her body looked older, wrinkles starting to form a permanent scowl. She must hate that.

“You’re the doctor, aren’t you? Whip up some antidote for him.”

If only it were that easy. People thought they could snap their fingers at scientists and doctors and engineers, and  _ presto _ things would get done. “I am in the process. I hope he shouldn’t need it, given I was able to get him to expel most of it. But I will continue to monitor him, and ensure that his symptoms don’t get worse.”

She looked at him again. There were new wrinkles around her eyes, too. “Is whatever it is so dangerous, that it really could kill us in a moment?”

“I don’t know that, either.”

She  _ tsked _ . “What good are you, if you don’t know anything?” Petyr had a brief flash of clarity: it wasn’t she was worried about dying from it, rather she was hoping she could use it against her enemies. Whoever they might be. She truly was no fun.

Petyr bit his tongue as he smiled.  _ It’s not like you know anything, either. _ “Everything we know about medicine has been learned through a long series of trial and error, dating back from the first humans. And there’s even less we know about our kind. I will do all that I can to learn about this poison, and how to  _ cure _ it.” He didn’t want to offer up the possibility of  _ weaponizing _ it. Petyr stopped himself from adding,  _ But I cannot guarantee I can find a cure.  _ That wasn’t what she wanted to hear, and really, it was a long way down the stairs. One shove and his head would paint a trail on the steps.

Cersei stared at him again. She knew he wasn’t lying, and Petyr knew she was genuinely concerned about at least one person in this castle that wasn’t her. 

“Move,” she finally said –  _ commanded _ . “I want to go check on my daughter.”

Petyr stepped aside. “As you wish.”

He waited a few moments, in case she had also silently commanded for him to follow. He heard the guards above startle at her appearance, opening the door at her barking words.

No words echoed down the stairs. Even though he could have went along with Cersei, he really didn’t feel like being in her presence right now. Another day he’ll check on the girl. 

Instead, Petyr continued down the stairs. He also didn’t feel like dealing with Robert (the damned whole family was determined to annoy Petyr today). But as he passed the ‘king’s’ rooms, he could sense Robert was fast asleep. There was a guard inside the chamber, who watched Petyr reluctantly enter.

“No need to wake him,” he told the guard. “I just plan to check his vitals.”

Petyr went through the steps, eyeing the bedside table piled high with empty goblets and a ewer of water. The room smelled of blood and sweat and sickness. No lust, which meant Robert was either properly following doctor’s order, or he was too weak to even force a servant for a fuck.

Petyr entertained a fake conversation with the ‘king’. “I’ve done some research,” he said (in his mind, not wanting the guard to think he was peculiar). “There might be something that could hurt us, but I still need to do research. It could also be nothing more than gossip. But if I _ have  _ found something–"

“Have you?” Fake-Robert interrupted. His voice wasn’t as hoarse as it really was, and Petyr noted to correct that.

“I can’t say. I still need to confirm if it’s the source of the poison, and if it poses a threat, and who would want you dead–"

“In that case, you’d have to kill everyone in this whole bloody castle!”

_ Myself included. _

The king’s pulse was slow but steady. Drinking clean blood should work to slowly rid his body of whatever toxins. Petyr soaked a towel in water and replaced the one on the ‘king’s’ forehead.

“Anyways,” Petyr continued, “I have an idea what the poison might be, though I’ll need to experiment and see if it’s the culprit. As for suspects, there’s some people that I’m wary of–"

“Are you going to kill them?”

“Not without any evidence.”

“Fucking chicken-shit.”

That was the extent of Petyr’s patience with fake-Robert. Petyr turned to the guard. “How often does someone bring in clean blood?”

The guard shrugged. “Couple times a day.”

“And who checks that it’s clean?”

“I do. Or one of us. He don’t drink it until he sees us taste it first.” The ‘king’ must be genuinely afraid, but unwilling to admit it. 

“And how do I know one of you isn't lying?”

“About the poison?” The guard blinked. “Because one of us’d be dead, too, if we did.”

“I want one of you watching the blood served, fresh, and a seperate one tasting it here in front of Robert. If you’re all telling the truth, then there’s no reason to be worried.”

Perhaps the guard was too dense to realize Petyr was accusing one of them of possibly being the murderer. Not that that was possible; it was Petyr who brought tainted blood into the castle. Besides, Petyr didn’t hold much faith that the muscle-heads were wily enough to figure out how to use poison to kill Robert. If they wanted him dead, they’d just take him out on a hunt and slit his thick throat.

Petyr put on his best doctor voice. “It’s merely a precaution. I only want to ensure nothing else gets into his system while his body is already weak. Anything else, and he might not be able to fight it.”

Finally, the guard nodded. “Sure. We’ll start doing that.”

“Great. I’ll be off then.”

Petyr continued back down to the hall. His head pulsed, and feeling it there definitely was a lump just above his ear. A combination of hitting it last night on top of dealing with everything and everyone. He never did get that nap, nor did he get to finish that bag of spiced blood. Petyr might need something stronger to get through all of this.

_ Like the sweet nectar of a particular girl? _

Petyr rushed down the rest of the stairs. Work. He needed to get back to the hospital, and dive into his work. He needed to forget about all this shit, for a few hours at least.

From the kitchen's stair came Joffrey, Margaery on his heels. He probably bragged to Ilyn about the ‘massive beast I totally slew this morning, and totally didn’t run away from’. The mute couldn’t tell the boy his story was complete bullshit. Maybe if Joffrey ever ascended to ‘king’ he’d cut off all his servants tongues for the same reason.

For now, though, Petyr spun on his heel. _ I don’t want to deal with anything else right now. _ He made a beeline for the back entrance before the two of them could spot him.  _ What _ they wanted, he didn’t care to know. Margaery, at least, wasn’t her usually clingy self when Joffrey was around, because she was hanging off every word he said. 

He strode past the tables still laid out with all manner of foods and drinks. Petyr plucked a goblet of Arbor gold as he went, thoroughly upset he couldn’t get drunk anymore by simply drinking and drinking until his brain stopped thinking.

At least he could pretend the alcohol did its job.

Oh, it was days like this Petyr wished he  _ had _ died.

* * *

Petyr tore open a bloodbag with his teeth, letting it fill his mouth. It was plain blood, and barely warm. He didn’t care that he drank it like a man on the verge of dying of thirst. Nor did he care that it spilled out of the corners of his mouth. 

Just now, Petyr finished seeing to one of the younger married girls in town, Louisa. She came in looking for assistance in breeding her first child. It was an area the women of the hospital were far more acquainted with, and so they sat with Louisa for at least an hour over general do’s and don’ts. Meanwhile, Petyr performed the routine checks, and pulled a sample of her blood for inspection. He also offered to speak to her husband if she thought that would help. Although he couldn’t see why, appearances-wise, they would have any trouble.

Unfortunately, it was now the night-shift, and the lull in work meant he had time to think about other stuff. Like the ‘king’s’ threat. Or the threat of something unknown with the potential to kill nightfolk after a single drink. Or when Robert told Petyr to ‘deal with’ whatever the problem was, it could mean Petyr had to deal with the ‘king’s’ own son. 

Around and around Petyr’s thoughts bounced. So now, if he wasn’t going to sleep, he was going to put his mind to something useful.

Petyr sat in his office, looking at the splay in front of him. He snuck out at sundown to the garden, plucking a sample of everything within, on the off chance that there was something in there that was the culprit. It wasn’t unusual for the villagers to test out new plants or fruits that traveling merchants brought up (sold at exorbitant prices). There was also the very likely possibility that one of the boys or brides-to-be brought something up from down the mountain, like Imam’s onion. Except something else that could take root, and sprout, and spread through the villagers without them knowing.

Or Petyr was merely tired.

He mixed bits of each sample into vials filled with various bloods (young to old, hot to cold), and hoped stewing it would yield the same scent as Robert’s poison. 

Petyr wondered if it was a mixture; two or three things that on their own were harmless, but together had the power to slay nightfolk. He didn’t have enough vials for every combination, so he made the first batch of combinations. The list was long; it would take him at least a week to get through.

He wasn’t sure which of these spices were the poison – if one of them indeed  _ was _ the culprit. It could be something completely different, some sort of assassin’s poison that Petyr didn’t know. That man could have stumbled in having just injected himself with the poison, planning to die for the cause of killing Robert.

Or Petyr was already out of logical ideas, filling the gaps with inane possibilities.

“I suppose I could just...ask her.” It was an idea that floated into his head more than once. “Excuse me, Sansa, I know we’ve only just met, and did I forget to mention that I snuck into your house and drank your blood last night? Never mind that, which of these did you use to accidentally kill the ‘king’?”

He let loose a warbled sigh.

All of this could also be a waste of time. For all Petyr knew, it was some blood malady that was causing the blood itself to turn (for lack of better word) rancid. Spoiled meat can kill a human, what’s to say spoiled blood couldn’t do the same to nightfolk?

Except he didn’t know the malady, or the man who carried it.  _ Average _ was his only clue. Petyr was short of asking all the boys and men in the village to line up outside the hospital and have Ros and Joane point out the suspect.

Petyr needed a break. He made his rounds of the few patients in the hospital, and finished saying hello to Ros. 

“Have you ever been  _ compelled _ to drink a specific animal?” The human nurses were gone, tucked in bed and dreaming of happy things. They didn’t have to be as careful.

Ros had been grinding herbs down. It was a repetitive task that she found soothing, whether in the action itself, or the harsh sound of crunching leaves and grinding stone. To each their own. “Like, saying ‘Oh I hope my darling husband’s caught a deer today? I do hope for a big steaming bowl of venison soup?”

“Well, sort of.” Petyr mulled over how best to ask. Perhaps the best way would have been not to ask at all. “Nevermind. Have you caught a deer recently?”

“Not recently. They’re harder to come by in the colder months.” Ros carefully transferred the ground herbs to a labeled bottle. “What about you?”

“Me?”

“I know you stick with the patient’s blood, but do you ever miss the feel of hunting?”

Petyr’s jaw clenched.

Ros looked up, not expecting to sense the change in his hammering heart. She bit her lip, toying whether to pry or not.

“On occasion. Generally, I don’t have time to miss things.”

Ros raised her brows in agreement. “What are you working on now?”

“Testing if any of the plants or herbs in the garden were what nearly killed Robert.” Petyr relayed the story of that night to Ros already, and she looked as worried as any other nightfolk. The idea that you could die drinking blood.

“I hope it wasn’t. I do hope you figure out what it was.”

“So do I.” It wasn’t that Petyr’s head was on the line, but it felt that way. “I’m going for a walk.”

Ros’ hands stopped. She stared at him a moment. “ _ You _ ?”

Petyr pretend to be offended. “Is it so difficult to believe I might want some fresh air?”

“Yes, actually. If you want a reprieve from your work, you go experimenting with blood. And if you want a break from experimenting, you come down here and check on the patients. Which is why you’re  _ here _ now. Rinse, repeat. You’re such a workaholic that  _ everyone  _ in the village knows you sleep under your desk.”

“I usually use a chair.”

“You could have fooled me.” Ros continued her work. “Well, I shouldn’t think we’d see anyone tonight.” She looked away, feeling for the villagers in their homes. “It’s quiet until the snows come in.”

“It is.” Petyr buttoned up his coat. With fresh blood coursing through his veins, he didn’t need it, except if he ran into someone. He’d stand out walking about as if the cold didn’t affect him. “I’m going to head to the edge and back. Don’t kill anyone while I’m gone.”

“Don’t kill anyone on your walk.”

The air was chilly, biting Petyr’s skin as he went. Doors and windows were closed shut, a stray candle here and there lit the street. The village was small enough it only had a handful of streetlamps; besides Petyr didn’t need them. It looked the same as this morning, greys upon greys, only less bright.

He didn’t think about it, but Petyr’s feet worked their way back here again. He could smell the lingering aroma of her bread on the street, as if it seeped into the stones themselves. How many generations of bakers lived and worked here? 

He wondered if she was still tending to the ovens, or if she was tucked beneath her furs. He reached for her inside.

But he didn’t sense anyone.

Petyr itched to go and check, but he reigned himself. It didn’t take much to remember how well  _ last time _ went (it was only last night!). But belly was full enough with blood that he shouldn’t succumb to her lovely scent.

His feet were already through the threshold, climbing the stairs two at a time. The rooms were empty, her bed cold. The backroom was warm, spices and yeast lingering in the air. But no sweet-smiling girl was to be found.

Perhaps she was having a late dinner with a neighbor, he assured himself. Sansa wanted to be sociable, and the villagers were more than kindly.

Perhaps she was plucking herbs from the garden. She had plenty of spices, but she would need to stock up if she wanted to keep churning out breads during the snows.

Perhaps she was scouring the forest for her lost fiance. Her heart was heavy at the mention of the baker. Maybe she cared for him, or even loved him.

Perhaps Joffrey returned when she was alone.

Petyr was bouncing on his heels, unsure where to look for her. She should be home, but she wasn’t, and all those options were as likely. Petyr reached out as far as he could, looking for anyone who shouldn’t be where they were supposed to.

Most everyone was tucked inside. Animals bleeted and howled and snored, but they were all accounted for. The patients in the hospital were snoring away, too. It seemed like someone walked in just now; Ros could handle it, if it was the usual minor injury.

And...there. At the edge of the forest. There was something that shouldn’t be there.

Petyr ran, footsteps echoing against the houses. He didn’t care if the villagers peered out their windows, clucked their tongues at his strange behavior. He didn’t care if he was being protective of this girl he just met. 

Something was wrong.

Or maybe not. Maybe it was just a hunter coming back with a kill. There was the heartbeat of one living creature, and another, recently snuffed of life.

A hunter and a boar.

A nightfolk and a deer.

Joffrey and Sansa.

Petyr’s lungs were on fire. He never ran this much this quick, but he didn’t let up. Why was it so far to the edge of the forest? Why was there a hand around his heart? 

What if he was wrong? If by the forest it  _ was _ a hunter, and Sansa was instead being stalked by Joffrey in the garden. Or even down the mountain.

Then Petyr would have to search all night until he found her.

Unless she was d– 

There. Beneath the trees, there was something.

Petyr slowed down, not wanting to freak out the human. Because it was a human, hunched beneath a crooked tree at the start of the trail leading into the pitch-dark forest. 

In their lap, was a body.

Petyr wished he had a torch, but he had only his ragged voice. “Hello? You there?”

He knew who it was before he approached. He could smell it, the mixture of spices and flour, like it stuck to their skin.

Sansa.

She looked up in his direction as he approached. “Who is…? Is that...you, doctor?” Sansa couldn’t see in the dark. Squinting at him, with the moon nothing but a sliver, all Sansa could make out was his dark silhouette.

Petyr, however, had a body created for hunting prey in the dark. He could see Sansa’s body, hunched over, dark smudges on her face and hands and clothes. He could hear the quiet rustle of wind through the trees, the heavy beating of her heart. He could taste the day’s bread clinging onto her.

He could smell the blood.

“Yes, it’s me.” He stepped closer. Close enough that there was no mistaking what else was hunched in the darkness.

A person. No; a  _ body _ .

“Are you alright?” Petyr asked. A moment later, he added, “I was out taking a walk to clear my head, and I happened to see something over here. I didn’t expect to find  _ you _ . Are you alright?”

Sansa didn’t look away from him. Slowly, she forced her breathing to even out. “No. I’m… Well,  _ I’m _ alright. But this fellow...”

Petyr knelt before her, looking at the body in her lap. It was the source of blood, gushing out of his mouth and neck. It was hard to tell if this was the victim of an animal, or what used to be a human. One thing for certain, it was dead.

“Who is this man?” he asked.

Sansa shook her head. “I...I don’t know. I was also out for a...a walk, and I heard someone calling for help. But I was…”  _ too late, _ she didn’t finish.

The scent of fear and blood was too much to tell if she was lying or not.

Petyr wanted to ask her more, but she was shaking. “Here,” he reached for the body, heaving it off of Sansa. It was still warm, and Petyr was thankful for drinking blood earlier. He might not have stopped himself from drinking this poor guy dry, right here in front of her. Petyr looked away from him. “I'll bring this fellow back to the hospital. First, let me escort you back home.”

He offered her a hand. Sansa stared at it a moment. “No, I... Thank you, but I think I want to be by myself a moment. I…”

“Please, let me,” Petyr insisted. “I can’t imagine what would happen if I let you walk home alone after this.”

Sansa looked towards him, then the body he had lugged around the waist. Petyr would have preferred help carrying him back to the hospital, but he didn’t want the poor man to attract animals. Have to face a horrid death, and then become a midnight snack to foul beasts. This was the least Petyr could do.

“Okay.” Her voice was small.

They walked back through the village in silence. Petyr didn’t know what he  _ could _ say to her that would make her feel fine. She just witnessed death, she might have been holding the man in his final moments.  _ Please don’t leave me to die, _ he said.  _ Please, I don’t want to die. _

So many children and men pleaded in Petyr’s arms. They wept for their gods, for their families, for one more day, please, just one more day. The war was long and pointless, gaining a miserable inch one day, losing it the next. The bodies they dragged back to the medic tents were the lucky ones; they had the  _ chance _ of being healed, of making it back home with half their body and mind. The others wept into the nights as their entrails became feast for birds.

Petyr swallowed bile. A part of him wanted to dump this man’s body and run away, anywhere else.  _ I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I couldn’t save you. _

But he pressed on. Step after miserable step.

Finally, after what felt like hours, they stood outside the bakery. “There, safe and sound,” he said, hoping his voice sounded a little cheerful. His face sure as hells didn’t look it.

Sansa nodded. “Thanks,” she managed, heading inside without looking back. Her fear had subsided, and replacing it was...emptiness? A familiar hollow feeling that Petyr knew all too well.

For the second time, he found it difficult to move his feet. He did, eventually, stopping halfway to the hospital to catch his breath.

Petyr glanced down at the body. In the dim streetlamp, it was more grotesque than he remembered. One eye popped, the other lolled in its socket. The mouth was a smear of blood and retch, covering the front of his torn coat. There were gashes on his neck, too, blood still trickling out. 

It was like a deranged animal tore at the poor man, as the man could only cry and beg for death to come swiftly.

Petyr shut his eyes tightly at the horror of it all. Again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ I would have had this up yesterday, but just as I was about to finish it, I decided to switch out the ending. Except I did not expect this to end the way it did… ]


End file.
